


let this road be mine

by myrmidryad



Category: Anastasia (1997), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twenties Setting, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, secret nobility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:55:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjan has no memory of his childhood other than a simple phrase - together in Paris. When he leaves the orphanage he's grown up in and goes to St. Petersburg, he meets three men who are willing to take him to where he wants to go on the condition that he at least consider the possibility that he might actually be Russian nobility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken somewhat unimaginatively from [Journey To The Past](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bCKBHvpNSg) from the Anastasia soundtrack.

There was a great celebration being held in the palace, and all Grantaire wanted to do was get a look at the ballroom. The Tsar and all the other nobles would be done up in jewels and finery, whirling and dancing like glittering birds to the music. The sight would fill him up for weeks, he was sure of it. All he wanted was a peek, a quick glimpse at the aristocracy shining like stars.

He’d thought being promoted from scrubber to kitchen boy would mean seeing more of the world beyond the austere servants’ quarters, but what luck he had seemed to be reserved for going uncaught so far in his food pilfering. He’d happily have gone without if it meant seeing something fine for once. In that sense, being moved from the laundry run to the kitchen was actually a demotion, not that he would have dared voice the complaint. He’d waited long enough to be moved anyway – he’d been the oldest child on the run, kept back because people always assumed he was younger than he was. Twelve already, he still looked about eight, a fact the other boys loved to tease him for.

The drudgery of life in the kitchen was punishing – up before dawn, helping to prepare food far richer and tastier than anything he got to eat, cleaning up everybody else’s mess, and being a general scapegoat for anything that went wrong in whichever section he was assigned. All he wanted was to escape the tedium for a few minutes and look at the party upstairs, with the nobility wearing all the fine clothes he used to help wash in the laundry rooms.

But kitchen boys did not belong out of the kitchen, and Le Gros had been keeping him busy since before sunrise. Catering to such a massive party required every available servant, even those who weren’t in the full employ of the palace. Technically, Grantaire and most of the other French servants belonged to the House of Aumont. The Princess had brought her own servants when she’d married Golovin just over ten years ago, including Grantaire’s mother.

One boy in an army of boys, Grantaire took advantage of being the smallest of the lot when someone knocked over a pot of soup and chaos erupted. With only one glance to check he was unobserved, he slipped away from Le Gros’ hawk-like gaze and hurried upstairs. He’d be severely disciplined, but it would be worth it. Just one look at the party, and he’d be satisfied. If anyone asked, he’d say he was bringing an orange for Golovin’s children.

He kept to the servants’ corridors till the last minute – the second he stepped out, he’d be noticed and stopped, so he had to make it count. Amazingly, he exited just before the ballroom and just behind the Golovins themselves. He’d never seen any of them up close, but they were all recognisable by their golden-yellow hair, paler in the two children. The boy was a couple of years younger than Grantaire, and the girl younger still. Enjolras and Euphrasie. French names at the insistence of their mother, apparently. Grantaire could sympathise.

He could feel the eyes of a footman burning into him, but Grantaire straightened and stepped out behind the children as though he was meant to be there. Neither of them noticed, squabbling about something or another. Grantaire craned his head and held his breath as the people ahead finally moved and a view of the ballroom was revealed.

The music was so grand, so sweeping. Grantaire’s wide eyes took in as much as they could, flicking from detail to detail to try and make the time count. The shining gold of the walls, the gigantic chandelier, the thrones on a dais on the other side of the hall, the sounds of people’s feet falling on the dancefloor and their hands clapping in time to the music… He’d barely absorbed two second’s worth of beauty before his ear seared with pain. He choked back a cry of surprise and let Le Gros drag him back to the narrow servant’s corridor.

“You couldn’t resist, could you?” Le Gros shook him like a doll as soon as they were out of sight. “You wait till the party’s over, lad. I’m going to tan your hide so hard you won’t sleep on your back for _weeks_ , and you can forget sitting down!”

 _Worth it_ , Grantaire told himself, though he was already shivering at the thought of the beating he’d get later. The pain would pass. The sight he’d just seen would stay in his memory forever.

Le Gros never did get round to punishing him, however. The party was interrupted by a sorcerer, or so the servers said. Grantaire listened at the edges of the kitchen with the other boys as the tales grew more and more fanciful. _Rasputin_. Furious at his rejection from the royal circle, he’d cursed the Tsar’s family; the entire Romanov bloodline.

“Eyes like lamps! Glowing yellow!” a footman declared.

“His hands! Did you see his hands, like claws, bigger than any hands I’ve ever seen!”

“He didn’t look like that when he was last here. He’s gone and done something evil since he was forced out.”

“More evil than a curse?”

“Did you feel the chill around him? And the shadows –”

“It’s like he sucked all the light out of the room!”

Grantaire shook his head and wished he’d been there to see the truth for himself. A curse from a sorcerer was even more exciting than a grand ballroom.

Most of the other servants made a show of dismissing the curse, but over the next two weeks, the news from outside the palace became increasingly dire, and one night Grantaire was woken up by shouts outside the dorm. When he and a couple of other boys poked their heads out, there were servants with lit candles running along the landing at the end.

“Get everyone up!” one of them shouted when he saw Grantaire. “They’re outside the palace! They’re breaking down the gates!”

“They’ll kill us,” Sergey whispered. Grantaire pushed him out of the way and ran back inside to get his boots on. They’d been hearing whispers about the Bolsheviks for weeks.

One of the other boys started to cry. “It’s the curse!”

Grantaire ignored them all and ran. He had to find Le Gros, or one of the other Golovin servants, but as he reached the main servant passages, his heart sank. The narrow corridors were packed with people, and when Grantaire saw one of them swear and open one of the panels out into the main halls he followed suit and started to run, panic taking hold of him. Everyone knew the Bolsheviks hated the nobles, and they’d certainly kill anyone associated with them.

There were flickers of light outside, and something dark pressing against the windows – fire and smoke. And he could hear people screaming, and the distant sound of guns. Noblemen and women were hurrying their children along, seeming so much smaller and more frightened in their nightclothes than their usual rich suits and dresses.

The main halls of the palace were huge and daunting, as tall as churches. Grantaire kept to the sides and dived back into the servant’s passages as soon as he found a doorway. He couldn’t think where Le Gros or the other Golovin servants would go, except…perhaps to the Golovin apartments? His fear-addled brain latched onto the idea and he started to run again, finding his way upstairs to where he knew there would be an opening into one of their parlours.

He leaned back as soon as he pushed it open, hearing voices beyond. But no – he caught a flash of blonde hair and peeked out again. It was the Golovin children and an adult. Fauchelevent – the Princess’ butler.

“My music box!” Euphrasie cried. Enjolras held onto Fauchelevent’s hand, eyes wide and scared, and Fauchelevent himself reached for Euphrasie as soon as she had whatever she’d come to get.

“Hurry, Cosette, they’re coming!”

They were headed for the door and Grantaire ran forward without thinking, grabbing the back of Fauchelevent’s coat. “Wait, not that way!” He pulled, dragging them back towards the wall. “Out the servants’ quarters.”

Recognition sparked in Fauchelevent’s eyes and he nodded, steering the Golovin children towards the panel in the wall. There were footsteps approaching, heavy boots and loud voices. Grantaire shut the panel only a second before the door burst open and three soldiers burst in, guns in their hands. Grantaire stared in terror and could only shake his head when they asked him where the children had gone. One of them lifted his gun and Grantaire didn’t even have time to shout before sharp pain bloomed on the side of his head and the world went black.

 

When he woke up, it was morning. He was alone in the parlour, and something caught the light from the windows and threw it in his face, making him squint. His head pounded, but he reached out for the source of the light anyway.

A little box. Green and silver and gold, with no catch to open it.

A gust of freezing air blew into the room, and Grantaire shivered as he sat up and saw that one of the windows had been smashed. He couldn’t stay, he knew. Everything had changed now. He needed to find Le Gros or another high-ranking servant, but if he couldn’t…Petrograd was a huge city. Surely someone out there would need a servant.

He pulled himself to his feet and limped towards the main corridor. If the Bolsheviks hated the rich people, so would he. If they smashed windows, he would smash windows too. The key to not getting hurt was blending in, so if the Bolsheviks started hunting down the nobles, Grantaire would make sure he was on the chasing side, not the running one.

 

TEN YEARS LATER

 

Enjan stared at the ticket office from beyond the line, trying to figure out what to do. He had no exit visa, no money, and no food. Winter in St. Petersburg would not be kind to someone in his situation, and he knew it. But he’d known that when he’d turned right instead of left at the crossroads, leaving behind a certain future in a fish market for…well. Standing at the edge of a station in growing despair, it seemed.

 _Together in Paris_. He knew nothing else of his past but those words. He had no name, no history, not even a date of birth. Just that whisper, not even connected to a voice. _Together in Paris_. Who had told him that? When? Was it a memory at all or just a hopeless dream?

He didn’t – couldn’t – know, but it was the only clue he had, so Paris was his destination. It had seemed simple when he’d turned right to come to St. Petersburg, but now the severity of his situation was sinking in. He didn’t know how much an exit visa cost, but he doubted they came cheap.

“Boy!”

Enjan turned, and frowned when at first he saw no one.

“Boy!”

Oh. Round the corner of a pillar was an old woman, beckoning him over. After a moment, he obeyed and stepped closer. “Yes?”

“You want to get out of Russia?”

Was he that obvious? “I want to go to Paris. But I don’t have an exit visa, and I don’t know –”

“Shhshhshh.” She grabbed the collar of his coat and pulled him down to the level of her face. Her breath was repugnant, but he tried not to show his revulsion. “See Grantaire. He can help.”

Thank fuck for that. “Where can I find him?”

“The old palace. But you didn’t hear it from me!” She shoved him away. He stumbled before righting himself and hurrying out of the station. Grantaire at the old palace. He would have preferred to buy a visa honestly, but who knew how long that would take? Months, most likely, and why wait and starve when he could see a forger?

The difficulty would still be money, but at least the result would come faster.

It was dark by the time he reached the Winter Palace. It was supposed to be a museum, he’d heard from the people he’d stopped to get directions. But the doors and windows were boarded up, the whole building giving off an air of emptiness and abandonment that seemed to push him away. He approached the gate with his head ducked because of the snow, so when he finally looked up he had to hold back a gasp at the sight. He’d never seen such a gigantic building in all his life.

Having slipped through a gap in the railings, Enjan hurried to the shelter of the terrace and walked slowly along it, staring. The city he’d been able to handle – he’d lived in an orphanage in St. Petersburg until he was twelve and been moved to one outside the city limits. But the palace was beyond anything he’d ever seen. He couldn’t imagine one family living in it. It looked big enough to house every family in Russia.

Snow blew into his face as wind whistled along the walkway, and he huddled against the wall to try and present a smaller target. Every opening he’d passed had been blocked up, but if he didn’t get inside soon he’d freeze to death before ever seeing this forger. The next boarded-up doorway looked shakier than most of the others, and he gave it a kick before he could talk himself out of it. 

The wood cracked. Enjan looked around, heart leaping into his throat at the sound, but no one came. “Idiot,” he muttered, taking a deep breath. “There’s no one here. Come on.” He backed up a few steps and took the boards at a run, ramming into them with his shoulder. They gave easier than he’d expected, and he sprawled on the floor and started to cough, shocked by his sudden fall and the cloud of dust it had produced.

It was almost enough to make him take off running, but he’d come this far and he wasn’t giving up now. Besides, excitement was tingling under his skin alongside the fear now – if he’d gone to the fish market, he would never have stepped inside the Tsar’s palace. This was where the revolution had exploded. He was literally walking on historic ground.

Historic ground, it turned out, was much colder and gloomier than it sounded.

The palace had been magnificent once, that much was obvious from the sheer scale of everything, but Enjan could see the gaps on the walls where portraits had hung, and the discoloured floor where a carpet had been torn up. The corners were bare and cobwebs hung in great curtains from the walls, but there was something…

Enjan wrapped his arms around himself and looked around as he walked deeper into the palace. It was like the feeling he had when he woke up sometimes; that there was something just beyond his reach, a memory _right there_ if he could only find a connection to bring it closer. It made something in him ache, stronger than it had been for years.

His feet took him left down a corridor, and then led him to a massive chamber. A ballroom, he realised, staring up at the ceiling. It was…not quite familiar, but…

Something against the wall moved and he jumped away with a gasp. It took a moment for him to realise that it was only a mirror, half-smashed and filthy. He pressed a hand against his heart (hammering at the sudden shock) and went closer. His reflection peered back with wide eyes – innocent eyes, Comrade Phlegmenkoff said, scoffing at how untrue it was. He was thin, pale blonde hair curling over his collar. He tried to keep it hidden with his hat, not liking how recognisable it made him.

For a moment, squinting at himself in the cracked mirror, he seemed to see another face. A woman’s face, with a different shade of hair and more of a curve to her jaw. A blink, and it was gone. He frowned, the ache in his chest insistent and pressing.

“Hey!”

He leapt a foot into the air and whirled around, searching for the source of the voice. There – movement up on the gallery. Three men.

Enjan ran without even thinking about it. One man he might have been able to take – he was strong as well as skinny – but three was out of the question. Fear lent him speed, but he hadn’t eaten all day, and they were gaining on him fast.

He skidded round a corner, ignoring their shouts for him to stop, and sprinted up a long gallery. He should never have come. He didn’t even have the breath to swear as their footsteps grew louder behind him.

“Wait a minute!” Fingers brushed his shoulder and Enjan whirled around with his fist ready. It slammed right into the face of the man pursuing him, who let out a cry and fell back. But that small delay had given his two friends time to catch up, and Enjan found himself blocked in.

The man he’d hit was doubled over, a hand pressed over his face. “I think you broke my dose!”

“It would be you,” one of the others sighed. He was tall, almost lanky, with flat brown hair and a thin face. “Is it bleeding?”

“I don’t think so?”

Enjan cast a wary look at the last man, who frowned when their eyes met, both of them still breathing hard. “Why are you running?”

“You chased me,” Enjan panted.

“Good point.” The lanky one looked at his companion and shrugged. “I’d run from you too.”

“Am I that ugly?”

The man Enjan had hit laughed, the sound muffled behind his hand, but Enjan didn’t look away from his ‘ugly’ companion. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, that was for sure. His hair was a greasy mess, his stubble spread down his neck, and his small mouth was pursed tight as he surveyed Enjan in return. Something changed though – his eyes widened and he gripped the lanky one’s shoulder. “Joly, look at him.”

Joly frowned, then assumed the same wide-eyed stare. “My god.”

“What?” Enjan stepped backwards, on guard. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, nothing.” The stubbled man shook his head and started to smile. “You’re…just a very handsome young man, that’s all.”

Enjan opened his mouth and felt his cheeks warm. “Is one of you Grantaire?” he blurted, trying to cover his sudden embarrassment. Who said things like that to perfect strangers?

“That would all depend on who’s asking for him,” the stubbled one said promptly.

“My name’s Enjan.” He glanced at the other two men. “I was told to come here for travel papers.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief.” The man he’d hit straightened and offered his hand. Enjan took it automatically, bewildered to see the man smiling. “I’m Bossuet. Good punch.”

“I, ah…thank you?” He’d only ever seen one black man before in his life, and it took a moment for him to realise that he was staring. His blush flamed, and he looked at the floor to compose himself before raising his eyes to the stubbled man. “So you’re Grantaire.”

“I suppose I must be, Injan.”

“Enjan,” Enjan corrected, frowning. “ _Onj_ -an.”

“Right, of course, of course.” Grantaire stepped closer, eyes roaming all over Enjan’s body in a way that put him on edge. “Enjan, sorry. Is that a last or first name?”

“I, it’s not, actually –” Enjan spun to keep Grantaire in his sights. “It’s my first, I think.”

“You think?” Grantaire’s eyes snapped to his, and Enjan stopped, startled.

“I…it might not be my real name, I can’t be sure. I don’t remember anything from before I was maybe eight.”

Joly’s hand shot out to grab Bossuet’s arm, both of them staring at him as well. Enjan didn’t know what had possessed him to say that, but it was too late now. He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anyway, does it? You can just make something up for the papers.”

“The papers,” Grantaire nodded. “Right. Where to?”

“I want to go to Paris.” He actually stepped back at the way Grantaire’s eyes lit up.

“You want to go to Paris?”

“Yes. Would you…look, could you stop staring at me like that?” He frowned at all of them. It felt like they were measuring him up. “I want to go to Paris, can you help me or not?”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just that you look a great deal like…well, our fourth passenger, actually.”

“What?” They’d lost him. Grantaire muttered something out of the corner of his mouth and Bossuet produced four tickets, which Grantaire snatched and flourished in front of Enjan’s face.

“Our fourth passenger. See, we’re actually going to Paris ourselves. Us, and Prince Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” Enjan repeated. There was something about the name…if he’d been alone he would have taken the time to try and figure it out, but he just shook his head. “Who’s Enjolras?”

“A Russian prince who escaped the massacres.” Bossuet pulled a piece of folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Enjan. It was a photograph of a family of four. Mother, father, son, daughter. Grantaire yanked it out of his hand before he could study it further.

“Joly and I were just thinking when we saw you, you bear an uncanny resemblance to the young prince.”

Enjan snorted. Of all the things he’d expected, that was not it. “Excuse me?”

“You look just like him,” Joly agreed, taking the photograph from Grantaire and holding it up to compare. “The same blonde hair.”

“He was said to have blue eyes,” Bossuet supplied.

“You’ve got his father’s height,” Grantaire nodded. Enjan shook his head, startled into a laugh.

“So what? You think I’m him?”

Bossuet took his arm and turned him around, leading him back the way they’d come. “Well think about it. You said you don’t remember anything before you were eight?”

“And no one’s seen him since he was about that age.” Joly stepped up to Enjan’s other side. “His body was never found.”

“You said you wanted to go to Paris?” Enjan turned back to Bossuet, overwhelmed. “Why is that?”

“Because you know,” Joly added, “his only family is in Paris.”

“Who?” Enjan wanted to roll his eyes as soon as he asked – what did it matter to him? But Joly beamed, the expression so heartfelt that Enjolras couldn’t stop his own lips turning up.

“His sister, Euphrasie. Their parents were killed before they could escape.”

“And if Enjolras had been killed too, his body would have been displayed alongside theirs,” Bossuet told him. “But it never was.”

“Euphrasie escaped, and she’s been in Paris ever since.”

 _Together in Paris_. Enjan bit his lip, the only sound for a few moments their shoes on the dusty floor.

“But like we said.” Grantaire’s hand on his shoulder pulled him to a stop, and Enjan spun to face him. “The fourth ticket is for the prince himself.” He smirked and stepped away. “And the train leaves tonight, so…we’d best be off.”

The other two whispered furiously as Grantaire led them away, and Enjan stayed frozen to the spot as they turned a corner out of sight, leaving him alone in the cold hallway.

His heart was pounding against his lungs, something urgent making his hands twitch. For that brief minute he’d been bracketed by smiles and pleasant words, and now he felt more alone than ever. _Together in Paris_. Had that boy in the photograph even looked like him? The name Euphrasie struck no chord in his mind, but that didn’t prove anything.

He couldn’t hear their voices anymore, and the sound of their footsteps were growing distant.

“Wait,” he whispered, then swallowed and started to run after them. “Wait! Grantaire!”

They were two corridors ahead of them, and they all turned when he slowed to a stop and looked between them anxiously. “Have you found him yet?”

Grantaire frowned. “What?”

“The prince,” Enjan sucked in a deep breath. “Have you found him? You said the train left tonight, so you don’t have long left if you haven’t.”

“Oh. Well, er…” He glanced at Joly, who shook his head.

“We’ve scoured the city –”

“Searched half the country, it feels like,” Bossuet sighed.

“– but no, so far we’ve had no luck. No one’s looked as much like him as you though.”

“Can I…” Enjan wasn’t sure which one of them had it. “Could I look at the photograph again?”

Grantaire reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled it out. He hesitated before handing it over, and Enjan unfolded it quickly, wanting a longer look this time.

The picture was small, the faces grainy and indistinct. It was hardly a lot to go on, but the boy did have fair hair and a slim face like Enjan’s own. “Do you think I could be him?” Enjan wanted to take it back the moment the words were out of his mouth, but Bossuet was already nodding.

“You’re the spitting image of the prince. I must’ve seen every blonde in Russia by now, and none of them’s looked as much like Enjolras as you.”

“She’d know though, wouldn’t she?” Enjan looked at Grantaire. “His sister, Euphrasie, she’d know if I wasn’t him? And it would…if I went, it would just be an honest mistake?”

Grantaire smirked again. “Either way, it gets you to Paris, doesn’t it?”

“So you’ll take me?” Enjan started forward, and in a flash Grantaire had the photograph out of his hand and back in his inner pocket.

“It’s a risk, but I don’t think we’ll find a likelier candidate between now and ten tonight.”

“Yes!” Joly threw an arm around Enjan’s shoulders and laughed. “To Paris we go! Have you any belongings?”

“No.” Joly’s smile was as infectious as before, and Enjan grinned. “This is all of me.”

“Splendid. We’ve just got a few things left to pack up and then we’ll be on our way!”

“Food first,” Bossuet said firmly, and Enjan prayed silently that he would be included in that.

Grantaire led the way upstairs and into a side corridor with none of the marks that indicated they had once been richly decorated. It would have been pitch black inside were it not for the candle Grantaire lit to guide their way. Enjan brushed his fingers along the bare wall, dropping his hand immediately when he saw Joly looking. The other man only smiled. “These are the servants’ passages.”

“They weren’t allowed to be seen by the nobles?” Enjan guessed, and curled his lip at Joly’s nod. “Charming.”

“Right little Communist, aren’t you?” Grantaire shot him a wry look over his shoulder. “You’re a prince now, remember?”

“So I should suddenly decide everyone else is beneath me?” Enjan snorted. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh great.” Grantaire heaved a sigh and kicked open a door to their right. “He’s opinionated.” The room he led them into was far grander than any of the others Enjan had seen, though he realised after a moment that it wasn’t down to the size of it. It looked luxurious because it was decorated. There were a couple of plush sofas and armchairs, cushions scattered across them and on the rug under their feet. Rich burgundy, stained in places but still fine to the eye, it was ashy at the place where a fire burned low behind a grate.

“You live here?” Enjan breathed, letting Joly and Bossuet move past him. He’d never seen so much decadence in his life. The tables had cloths thrown over them, and papers lay in heaps on the floor under and between them. Beautiful golden candelabras were dotted in odd places around the space, and there were empty plates and cups scattered everywhere.

“Sometimes.” Bossuet went to the fire and took a pan that had been sitting on the mantelpiece. “R, where’re those sausages?”

“Sausages?” Enjan needed to sit down. Joly appeared next to him and guided him to a sofa.

“Sit, rest. When did you last eat some meat?”

“I…” He couldn’t remember, and he shook his head. “It costs so much, I haven’t –”

“Here.” Grantaire threw something at them that Joly caught, though it made Enjan flinch. It was only a chunk of bread, a little stale, but Enjan tore into it greedily when Joly handed it to him. “Slow down, Enjolras, the sausages are the good bit.”

“What?” Enjan blinked at him, something in him jolted by the unfamiliar name. “What did you call me?”

“Enjolras. You might as well get used to it.” Grantaire rolled his eyes, but his smile wasn’t unkind. It just looked a little odd on his face. It was the shape of his jaw, Enjan decided. It was very round, and it made Grantaire’s mouth look even smaller than it was.

They had wine to go with the sausages, and that in combination with the heat of the room made Enjan flush. Joly squashed up next to him so that Bossuet could sit on the sofa as well, and they passed the wine bottle around as they made their travel plans. The train would take them to Germany, it seemed, but that would take three days. From there they would catch a bus, or perhaps take another train if it was cheaper.

The sausages were so good Enjan could have cried, and he ended up dozing a little, the richness of everything sending his head spinning. He’d never had wine before, and though the flavour had been unpleasant at first, by the third time the bottle came to him his tongue had grown accustomed to it.

 _Together in Paris_. He was going to _Paris_. And these strange, laughing men would help him get there. Perhaps – something in his chest fluttered – perhaps they would even be his friends.

The night was freezing when they stepped out into it, hurrying with a suitcase each to catch their train. “Ever been on a train before, Enjolras?” Bossuet asked, teeth chattering.

“I’ve never been in a car before,” Enjan laughed, tucking the ends of his scarf under his coat. “This is all new to me.”

“Never been in the city before either, I’ll bet.” Grantaire was much nicer now – Enjan thought the wine helped. His smile was wider, and his jokes wittier.

Enjan shook his head. “I lived here till I was twelve, but they sent me away for…” How had they put it? “Inciting rebellion.”

All three of them hooted with laughter at that. “Inciting rebellion!” Grantaire laughed. “What did you do?”

“I spied on the adults,” Enjan stumbled against Joly. “Shit, sorry.”

“What were they doing?” Grantaire prompted.

“Stealing. I mean, taking more food and feeding us less. So I told the other kids, and we…we told them we wouldn’t stand for it.”

“You little trooper.” Grantaire laughed, but Bossuet smacked his shoulder.

“I think it’s admirable! Though I take it it didn’t work?” he gave Enjolras a sympathetic look.

“They figured out I was the one who started it and sent me away. And I think…they must’ve said something to the adults there because they made sure none of the other children there liked me.” That had been the hardest. He’d had friends at the orphanage in St. Petersburg, but after that he’d had no one. He’d either been ignored or bullied, but he hadn’t had enough wine to blab about _that_. Self-pity was for the weak; everyone knew that.

“You’ll make plenty of friends in Paris,” Bossuet assured him. “The French are a friendlier people. The cold turns Russians to stone.”

“What?” Enjan glared at him. “It does not! I’m Russian!” 

“Technically, _Enjolras_ , you’re half Russian.” Grantaire paused, then led them down a side street. “Your mother was French.”

“She clearly had superior taste in men,” Enjan muttered. Grantaire gave him an amused look.

“Yet she insisted on giving her children French names. Funny, that.”

Enjan couldn’t think of a retort, and lapsed into moody silence, ignoring the grins Joly and Bossuet exchanged either side of him.

His excitement returned when they reached the train station, accompanied by an odd tightness in his chest when he saw the train. For a second he could have sworn the crowd on the platform was on the tracks as well, people swarming and shouting to try and get on the train, to escape, to flee, but a shake of his head showed the clear tracks. The only thing there was snow.

“Come on, keep up.” Bossuet tugged his sleeve and they ran after Grantaire and Joly. The train was just about to go, the air full of soot and steam, and Enjan sucked in breaths that felt like they were coating his lungs with filth.

For a moment he was sure he would fall, and they would leave him behind on the platform, speeding away to Paris without him. But Bossuet threw his suitcase up to Joly and tugged Enjan in front of him. Joly extended a hand and Enjan took it, letting himself be pulled up on board.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire cocked his head once they were filing up the corridor, following Bossuet this time. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Enjan shook his head. “I’m fine. It was crowded out there, that’s all.”

Grantaire snorted. “It’s crowded everywhere in this city. I can’t wait to put it behind me.”

Enjan waited until Grantaire turned ahead again before scowling at his back. Sure, Grantaire could look down on St. Petersburg – he lived in the palace and ate sausages. If Paris hadn’t been Enjan’s goal, he would be happy to stay in the city. It was far, far better than the country.

Bossuet and Joly started getting the beds out as soon as they found their carriage. Each carriage slept four, and Enjan hesitated to stake a claim on any of the beds until Grantaire tapped his shoulder and gestured to one of the top bunks. “Joly and Bossuet will sleep below us, if you don’t mind?”

Enjan shook his head and climbed up. “Why would I mind?”

“Well you’re the prince.” Grantaire smirked and clambered up onto his own bunk. Once there he began to strip, and Enjan averted his gaze hurriedly. Doing that meant he looked below, through the gap between the top bunks, and saw Joly lean across from his bed beneath Enjan’s. Bossuet leaned forward as well to bridge the gap between them, and Enjan had a perfect view of the moment where their lips met.

 _Oh_.

He shifted back on his bunk and waited for the lights to go out before wriggling out of his coat and boots. He was glad Grantaire couldn’t see him undressing, or see the smile he couldn’t wipe off his face. At least that was one thing he wouldn’t have to worry about among these men, the way he’d had to worry about it at the orphanage. He’d always known that wanting man wasn’t a disease of the rich and effeminate, but it was a relief to see the confirmation.

He rolled onto his side to face the wall and breathed out slowly, grinning as the reality of his situation settled in. He was going to _Paris_. Finally, after so many years of wishing, he was going to Paris, and not only was it costing him nothing, but he was in the company of men like him.

Well. Two men like him – he couldn’t speak for Grantaire. But if Grantaire accepted Joly and Bossuet then he was clearly tolerant at the very least, which was more than Enjan had ever experienced.

But Paris! And perhaps, if Grantaire and the others were right…it was absurd to think of it, to believe that he might really be Enjolras Golovin, but if they were right, then he really would find his family at the end of the journey. Hoping was painful, he’d always known that, but pain was proof he was alive, so he let it fill him up and overflow, his smile so wide his cheeks ached.

He’d had a home once, he was sure. He’d had a place of his own, and a family who loved him. That he had no memory of it didn’t mean he didn’t have a feeling. He knew he’d been safe and cared for as a child. He hoped with everything inside him that he would have that again soon.

 

Enjan watched the scenery outside fly by with wide eyes. They were no longer in Russia, though Poland looked no different at first glance. Still a lot of snow and a lot of trees and fields. They’d actually passed through Latvia overnight, which Enjan couldn’t quite wrap his head around. He knew that the world was big, but it was amazing to actually travel it, to speed across the surface faster than he could have dreamed possible.

Grantaire was out walking up and down the aisles or something pointless to that effect, and across from him Joly was reading a little paperback book and Bossuet was carefully forging their travel papers. He had a little briefcase that opened up into a portable desk, with half a dozen little drawers and compartments for pens, ink, and many different kinds of paper.

Joly glanced up and smiled when he saw Enjan staring. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“It looks so real.” Enjan leaned forward to get a better look, and Bossuet obliged his curiosity by tilting the page to show him. “It really looks printed.”

“That’s the idea.” Bossuet grinned and lay the papers flat again. “It’s a good thing I’ve got steady hands. I’ve never done this on a train before.”

“It looks perfect,” Joly assured him, and smiled at Enjan. “Are you excited?”

Enjan nodded. “And nervous. But mostly excited, I think. Only yesterday morning, I was leaving the orphanage, and now I’m on a train to Paris. It doesn’t seem real.”

“Well I didn’t forge this.” Bossuet gestured to their surroundings. “So unless you’ve fallen down in a snowdrift and dreamed this whole thing, I’d say you can trust your eyes.”

They all looked round as the door opened and Grantaire slipped in. “Guard won’t be coming till the afternoon,” he told Bossuet. “No hurry.”

“I’m nearly done with yours anyway.” Bossuet showed him and Grantaire made an approving sound. “Only Enjan’s to go now.”

Grantaire nodded and sat down next to Enjan, giving him a critical look. “Tch. Sit up straight, Prince Enjolras. You’re nobility, remember?”

Enjan scowled and slumped down further, not missing Joly’s stifled grin as he did. “And how do you know how nobility sits?”

“I make it my business to know,” Grantaire said smoothly.

“To con them?”

“Among other things. Look, I’m just trying to help, you know.”

“Really.” Enjan gave him a flat look. “If you like bossing people around so much, maybe you’d be better playing the prince.”

Joly laughed. “But you’ve got the disdain down so well, Enjan!”

“Very noble indeed,” Grantaire huffed and crossed his arms. Enjan stuck his tongue out at him as soon as he looked away and went back to looking out of the window. Joly and Bossuet he thought he understood, but Grantaire was harder to get a handle on. He lit up when speaking to his friends, but there was something in the way he spoke to Enjan that set him on edge. The way he waltzed between being mockingly respectful and patronising, perhaps. Enjan had always hated being made fun of.

That evening in the dining cart, Grantaire nudged Enjan’s foot under the table when they were finished and gestured for him to get up. “We’ll leave you two to finish up here,” he grinned at Joly and Bossuet and clapped a hand on Enjan’s shoulder. “See you back in the carriage.”

“What was that about?” Enjan muttered once they were out of earshot, picking their way past the other tables to the end of the car.

“I just wanted to give them some privacy. You don’t mind, do you, your highness?” The look Grantaire gave him was challenging, and Enjan narrowed his eyes.

“Not at all. Why would I?”

Immediately, the light in Grantaire’s eyes vanished, and he shrugged. “Just asking a question, no need to get so defensive.”

“You’re the one who –”

“Mm?” Grantaire gave him a fake smile as they reached the door and pulled it open for Enjan to go first.

“Never mind.” Enjan frowned as he walked past, ignoring Grantaire behind him as they made their way back to their carriage. The view from the window was beautiful; the sun setting over trees overladen with snow, the sky lit up with streaks of deep pink and pale orange. “Wow.”

“It’s only a sunset.” Grantaire slumped opposite him, and Enjan rolled his eyes.

“Are you so jaded about everything?”

“Only most things.”

“What about Russia?” Grantaire frowned at him, and Enjan explained. “Will you miss it?”

Grantaire snorted. “Miss it? No.”

“But it was your home.” Enjan pressed his back against the cushioned seat and frowned. Grantaire had practically been living in luxury – what wasn’t to miss about that? Enjan was going to miss Russia and he’d spent most of his life there hungry and lonely.

“It was a place I lived in.” Grantaire put his feet up next to Enjan and looked down at his lap. “That’s all.”

Enjan sighed. All he wanted to do was try and talk, but Grantaire seemed to enjoy making things difficult. “Then do you plan on making Paris your home?”

“What is it with you and _homes?_ ”

Enjan glared at him, surprised by his vehemence. “What’s with your disdain for them? Everyone wants a home.”

“ _Everyone_ is an idiot.”

“Everyone except for you, I assume.”

“Oh no, I include myself wholeheartedly in that. People are idiotic, blind creatures who’d follow a spark right down into a pit of snakes with gleeful abandon.”

“They are not!”

“Please, your highness, give me an example of a good, pure, honest human being. A real one.”

“Jesus.”

Grantaire burst out laughing. “A real one, Enjolras! If Jesus did exist, he’s been glorified beyond all humanity by now. A real person, someone who hasn’t been dead for centuries.”

“Lenin.” Enjan regretted it the moment he spoke, and flushed at Grantaire’s hoot of laughter.

“Lenin? _Lenin_ a good, pure, honest man? You can’t be serious!”

“He modernised Russia,” Enjan said hotly. “He legalised abortion, denounced the church, he –”

“He killed more people than you’ve probably met in your life,” Grantaire sneered. “The Red Terror, do you remember that?”

“So you’d refuse to acknowledge all the good he did because of that?”

“That! _That_ , you say, as though the massacre of thousands is nothing.”

Enjan rose to his feet just as the door slid open, Joly and Bossuet wearing matching expressions of surprise. “What’s going on?”

“He is.” Enjan glared at Grantaire and stepped over his legs to get out. “He’s insufferable!”

“Me?” Grantaire said, outraged. “What have I done?”

Enjan just made a wordless noise of frustration and stalked past Joly and Bossuet, heading for the toilets at the end of the car. All he’d wanted was a civil conversation. Was that so much to ask? But if Grantaire wanted to be antagonistic and argue with everything Enjan said, then fine. That was just fine. It wasn’t like Enjan wanted Grantaire to like him anyway.

When he returned to the carriage, Grantaire was absent, and he breathed a small sigh of relief as he sat down. Bossuet sighed and reached over to pat his knee. “R doesn’t mean anything by it. He likes to argue – you can’t take anything he says seriously.”

“What does that mean?” Enjan frowned, confused.

“He’s not an idealist.” Bossuet exchanged a wry grin with Joly. “Whatever your point is, he’ll take the opposite stance and argue it for fun.”

“He didn’t sound like he was doing it for fun,” Enjan muttered. “He sounded angry.”

“Ah, he’s just sober. He hasn’t had a drink since we left. Get a few glasses of wine in him and argue then – you’ll be laughing so hard you won’t be able to speak.”

That didn’t sound particularly conducive to debate to Enjan, but Joly and Bossuet knew Grantaire better than he did. He leaned against the window and stared out at the darkening landscape, trying to imagine Paris, his daydreams slipping into actual dreams as his eyelids drooped.

Next thing he knew, there was a hand shaking his shoulder. He lashed out without thinking, and jerked away when someone shouted. “Ah! What the –”

“Sorry! I’m so…oh.” Enjan relaxed when he saw it was Grantaire. “It’s you. I thought you were someone else.”

“You have many enemies in that orphanage of yours?” Grantaire rubbed his cheek and offered his hand. “Come on, we’re moving.”

“What? Moving where?” Enjan took his hand anyway, surprised at the strength of Grantaire’s grip as he was pulled up onto his feet.

“Further along the train. Quickly, come on.” He passed one of the bags to Enjan and hurried out of the door. Enjan followed, trying not to yawn. Joly and Bossuet were already halfway up the passage, and he sighed as he jogged to catch up. His suspicions rose as they rushed through the dining car, and he raised an eyebrow when he followed the others into what seemed to be their final destination.

“The baggage car?” There were only two emergency lamps in this part of the train, casting a dim light over stacks of suitcases roped together and several boxes piled on top of each other.

“Funny story,” Bossuet laughed nervously, and Enjan looked at Grantaire.

“Something wrong with our papers, is there, maestro?”

“Oh, not at all, your highness.” Grantaire bowed and took the bag Enjan was holding with a servant’s oily charm. “We just couldn’t bear to see you mingling with those commoners.”

“Of course.” Enjan looked back at Joly and Bossuet. “Something’s wrong with our papers, isn’t there?”

“The ink,” Bossuet sighed. “I’ve done everything in blue, but they’ve been changed at some recent point to red. Just my luck. Still.” He gave Enjan a cheery grin. “We’ll be fine here. I’m sure nothing else will go wrong.”

Any replies were cut off by the car suddenly lurching forward, throwing them and their luggage to the ground. Enjan ended up squashed under Grantaire and someone’s suitcase, struggling to breath. “Get off!”

“I’m trying!”

“What happened?” Joly shouted.

There was cold air blowing in, and as Grantaire finally rolled off him Enjan looked round and gaped at the hole in the wall where the door had been. “What –”

“There goes the dining car.” Grantaire groaned and smacked Bossuet’s arm. “This is your fault. You had to tempt fate, didn’t you?”

Through the ragged gap where the wall had been, Enjan could see the dark forest either side of the tracks, which were a blur as the train sped over them. He pushed himself away from the edge before standing up, the floor rocking under his feet. “Does anyone else feel like we’re going too fast?”

“That might be because the engine’s on fire,” Joly called from the other end. They all rushed up to the window to look. Enjan put a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder to steady himself as he rose up on tiptoes and gaped at the sight. There were sparks and bits of fire flying from the cart ahead of them, and the metal door felt warm when he touched it.

“Fucking hell, why did we get a train?” Grantaire pushed them all back and heaved the door open. “I’m going to look, stay right here.”

“Be careful!” Bossuet yelled after him as he started to climb the ladder onto the coal cart.

“What the hell is he doing?” Enjan made to follow, but Joly yanked him back. “We’re going way too fast! He’ll fall!”

“He’ll be fine.” Joly pulled him back from the door, calm voice belied by the sheen of sweat on his face. “Trust me, he’s done stupider things and come out on top.”

“That’s hardly a guarantee of success!”

“If he wanted a guaranteed failure, he would’ve sent me,” Bossuet laughed, a little manic. A giggle bubbled up in Enjan’s throat in response, and he shook his head to quell it. Getting hysterical wouldn’t help now. The heat from the engine was all the fiercer now the door was open. Enjan couldn’t imagine how Grantaire was facing it. 

“At least the guards won’t get us now,” Joly muttered, staring back along the track. The rest of the train wasn’t even visible anymore. A thud from behind them made them whirl around, and Grantaire stumbled back into the car.

“There’s no one there – no one’s driving this train.” 

“We’re not jumping!” Joly said immediately. “Don’t even think about it – we’re going too fast, R, we’d break our necks if we tried.”

“Fine, that’s fine.” Grantaire was panting. “That’s not a problem, we’ll just uncouple the cars. Find me an axe or something.” He went back to the door and climbed down out of sight.

By the time Enjan had stopped gaping, Joly had already found a toolbox, but Enjan looked around for other options anyway. From the door he heard clanging and then a frustrated shout. “It’s fused together! I need something bigger!" 

“Try this.” Joly passed him a mallet, and swore as the train lurched. Enjan jerked forward, but Grantaire’s hair was still visible, and he fell back to help Bossuet to his feet. As he did, their eyes both fell on a box stamped ‘explosives’.

“If a mallet won’t cut it,” Enjan started, and Bossuet nodded, grinning.

“Open it up, I’ve got matches.”

Enjan grabbed a wrench from Joly’s toolbox and levered the lid of the box open, fear lending him strength. There were smaller boxes inside, each of them packed with sticks of dynamite. “Hold it steady,” Bossuet said, holding a match to the fuse. “Okay, go!”

Enjan got to the door just as Grantaire hurled the mallet away out of frustration. “Something bigger!”

“Here!” Enjan passed him the dynamite and scrambled back as Grantaire’s eyes lit up. Joly and Bossuet were already sheltering behind a pile of suitcases, but Enjan hesitated until Grantaire jumped back up into the car and dragged him behind them as well.

“Hide, quick! God, what did they teach you at that orphanage?”

Any reply Enjan might have given was cut off by an explosion that almost buried them under the luggage. He struggled out from under a trunk and tried to breathe, shaking as Grantaire ran to the front of the car and started beating at a fire with his coat. The entire front wall was gone, door and all, and parts of the walls either side of it had been destroyed as well. The gap let in the freezing wind, flurries of snow stinging Enjan’s face. “I can’t believe I thought leaving Russia would be easy.”

“I don’t think any of us expected this,” Bossuet huffed, helping him to his feet. There was forest only on one side of them now – to the other lay a steep cliff, and Enjan could see the track curving round the forest edge to a large chasm, over which stretched a large bridge. If any of them fell now, it would lead to a certain death.

“Joly!” Grantaire shouted. “Get the brakes!”

Bossuet and Enjan held each other up as Joly and Grantaire tried to turn the brakes, only to end up breaking the handle. “Your luck is spreading,” Enjan muttered, slightly relieved when Bossuet choked back a laugh. If he was laughing he was probably okay.

“It’s fine,” Joly said, pulling Grantaire away from the edge. “It’s not a problem. We have plenty of track, we’ll just slow down naturally.”

The car lifted below them almost before Joly finished talking, and Enjan yelled as they were all thrown to the ground again, the sounds of another explosion tearing through the air. Enjan reached out for Joly’s coat but ended up grabbing onto Grantaire’s arm, heart thudding like a racehorse’s at the knowledge that if he and Joly hadn’t moved away from the edge when they had, they would have fallen onto the tracks and been killed.

Grantaire grabbed his hand and pulled him up, and they all looked ahead at the same time to see the chasm ahead of them. Where there should have been a bridge over the gap, there was nothing but the ragged ends of two tracks either side.

“Oh my god,” Bossuet whispered.

“What was that about slowing down naturally?” Grantaire’s voice was an octave higher than usual, and he shook off Enjan’s hand and ran to the other end of the car. “I have an idea, someone pass me that chain.”

Joly was practically holding Bossuet up, so Enjan followed instead, grabbing the end of a coil of heavy chain as he went. Grantaire was lowering himself over the edge of the back end, and looked up as Enjan offered the chain. “What are you doing?” 

“Do you want the chain or not?” Enjan snapped, and let out a breath when Grantaire took it. Securing it under the car, he realised, so they could drop the end with the hook onto the track and hopefully pull them to a stop.

The car bumped again and Enjan lunged forward just in time to catch Grantaire’s flailing hand and yank him up out of the way as some piece of wreckage burst out onto the tracks and flew into a tree hard enough to crack the trunk. Enjan pulled, trying not to show how scared he was as he helped Grantaire back up into the car. “That could’ve been you,” he managed to gasp.

“I’ll thank you if we survive this,” Grantaire promised, grabbing the rest of the chains. Still on his knees, Enjan turned to help him shove them over the edge. “Brace yourselves!” Grantaire yelled over his shoulder, and wrapped an arm around Enjan’s chest as the chain skittered along the tracks, caught, and then was pulled tight. The floor jumped beneath them, but the momentum of the car was too great, and instead of pulling them to a stop the chain just began to rip up the tracks.

The car tilted backwards, and Enjan cried out as they were thrown back, but Grantaire’s arm around him held on tight, keeping their sides pressed together until the world steadied again. The car had twisted, skidding sideways over the rails. Even with the friction making the metal scream, there was no way they’d slow to a stop before they reached the cliff face. “Get your things!” Joly shouted from somewhere nearby. “Hurry, before we get to the bridge!”

With Grantaire’s help, Enjan got to his feet again and found himself bracketed by Grantaire and Bossuet, their arms through his. “Ready?” Grantaire yelled. Enjan barely had time to look at what they were leaping into – mostly snow, from what he could tell, but they were still going so fast – “Jump!”

The cold hit like a hammer blow, the freezing wet stealing Enjan’s breath and covering him up. For a second he was sure he was dead, but then his arms were being pulled, and he managed to sit up and struggle to his feet with the others. They watched from the treelines as the engine, and then their sideways-skidding baggage car flew into the gorge, plummeting down and hitting the bottom with such force, Enjan felt it reverberate in his legs.

Bossuet was the first to speak. “Fuck me,” he muttered. “That was almost us.”

Enjan sank down to his knees again as Joly pulled Bossuet into a hug, and then a long kiss. Grantaire sat down next to him, the dark hiding his expression. Enjan looked at him, then at the tracks. “How far are we from our next stop?”

“Warsaw was meant to be at nine,” Grantaire said after a moment, and lifted his hand to squint at his watch. “It’s eight now.”

“We were going much faster than we should’ve been for the last few miles,” Enjan offered. “We can’t be too far.”

“Joly…” Grantaire took a deep breath and started again. “Joly has a map in his bag. We should be able to find the bridge on it and judge the distance from that.” Enjan nodded, but neither of them moved for a minute. Finally, Grantaire nudged him. “Hey.”

“What?”

“Thanks.” It was difficult to tell, but it looked like Grantaire was smiling at him. Enjan managed a shaky grin in return, his body beginning to protest at the cold and wet now the adrenaline was fading.

“Any time.”

 

By the time they got to Warsaw, Enjan was helping Bossuet hold Joly up, and Grantaire was the only one who could find the energy to ask a couple of people still out late for directions to a hotel. “We’ve money enough for one room,” he muttered, scarf pulled up over his mouth and nose. Enjan shook his head, too tired and cold to care.

“We can sleep on the floor, it’s fine.”

Grantaire nodded. In the end, they scored a room with one bed, and Enjan sighed in relief when they got in. “Joly, Bossuet, you should take it.”

“Why’s that?” Grantaire asked, shivering. Enjan went over to the radiator and sighed when he felt it – icy to the touch, it didn’t even have a knob to change the heat.

“Because Joly’s dead on his feet, and Bossuet’s been basically carrying him. You and I can handle the floor for a night.”

To his relief, Grantaire didn’t argue and just laid out a thin makeshift mattress of clothes from their cases on the floor while Bossuet shoved the two narrow beds together and helped Joly peel off his sodden clothes. “Get over here then, your highness." 

Enjan blinked. “What?”

“You n-n-n-need the heat,” Joly explained through chattering teeth. “Bossuet and I will be d-d-doing the same.”

Enjan swallowed his protests – it wasn’t quite the same; Joly and Bossuet were _lovers_ , for goodness sakes – and shucked off his coat and boots. Grantaire had already stripped down to his underwear and a thin shirt, and smiled gratefully when Bossuet draped one of the blankets from the beds around his shoulders. 

“Feet like this.” Grantaire beckoned Enjan over and gestured to his legs. He’d crossed them and stuck one foot between the calf and thigh of his opposite leg to warm it up. “So you don’t wake up with black toes.”

Joly and Bossuet cuddled on the beds while Enjan sat next to Grantaire, sharing the blanket as much as they could while warming up their feet. He was already half asleep when Grantaire prompted him with a nudge to lie down. “Back to back,” he whispered, and Enjan turned over obediently, eyes already closed.

 

A bus took them to a town near the Polish border the next morning, and after spending a night there (under a bridge this time, to save money) they walked on. “Are we walking to Paris?” Enjan sighed, his feet aching from the continuous trudging.

“No, your highness. We’re walking to Germany.” Grantaire had been a little kinder to him since the train incident, but he was still a sarcastic bastard through and through. Enjan huffed and looked at Joly for clearer answers.

“We’re going to catch a boat in Stralsund,” Joly explained, hefting his suitcase in his hand. His jacket was packed away, all of them walking with their shirtsleeves rolled up due to the sudden spring heat.

“So we’re walking to Stralsund,” Enjan said, trying to remember if he knew where Stralsund was. It had to be on the coast, but other than that, who knew?

“No, Prince Enjolras.” Grantaire groaned and set down his bag. “We’re catching a bus across the border. It shouldn’t be too far now.”

“But we’re stopping for a break?” Bossuet said hopefully, and dropped his own case with a sound of relief when Grantaire nodded. “Thank god for that. I’m sweating buckets.”

Enjan sat down at the side of road and stretched his legs out, easing his boots and socks off with his toes. It was a blessing to feel the cool air on the overheated skin, and he lay back against the grass and wondered if there was time for a nap.

“Every step is a step closer to Chetta,” Joly told Bossuet, and Enjan cracked an eye open in time to see Bossuet light up.

“Excellent point! Musichetta, light of my life, fire of my loins, star of my soul!”

Enjan sat up again. A smile tugged at his lips; a response to Bossuet’s good cheer, though he was confused as well. Joly flopped down next to Bossuet and sighed dreamily.

“Musichetta!” Bossuet flung his arms out dramatically – Joly fell backwards to avoid them, laughing – “Laigle’s on his way! Your eagle flying home to roost!”

“Who’s Musichetta?” Enjan called across to them. “And who’s Laigle?”

“Why Enjan, haven’t we introduced you to Laigle?” Joly rolled to his feet and drew himself up tall, clearing his throat. “Your Royal Highness Prince Enjolras, may I have the unparalleled pleasure of introducing to you, the Eagle of Meux himself! The charming, the dashing, the _incomparable_ Laigle!” He snapped his arms to the side, gesturing to…Bossuet?

Enjan shook his head, baffled. “I thought your name was Bossuet?”

“A nickname,” Bossuet grinned, letting Joly tug him to his feet. “My given name is Laigle, but due to a complicated series of circumstances soon after we three met –” He indicated Grantaire as well, loitering nearby with a crooked smile on his face. “I was gifted with this nickname that I prefer chiefly on the basis that people are less likely to confuse the spelling.”

“So who’s Musichetta?”

“Ah –” Grantaire started forward with wide eyes, but Joly and Bossuet ignored him, Joly sweeping Bossuet up in a stumbling waltz, the two of them laughing.

“Musichetta is the sun!” Joly declared. “She is spirit of nature!”

“She is a hot chocolate after a walk in the snow! A cool icy drink on a day like this.” Bossuet twirled Joly (who had to duck to fit under Bossuet’s arm). “She is the embodiment of pleasure and joy, an artist and a muse together!” He and Joly collapsed into giggles, and Enjan couldn’t help grinning with them. 

“Is she a person or a seraphim?”

“She is Princess Euphrasie’s closest confidant,” Joly sighed, ignoring the slightly frantic noises Grantaire was making. “And when we arrive in Paris, she will be the first person we see! It’s been so long.”

He and Bossuet began to waltz again, and Enjan frowned, getting to his feet. “I thought we would see the princess first?” They didn’t answer, too caught up in whispering little bits of Musichetta trivia to each other, and Enjan turned his suspicion on Grantaire, who had seemed so keen for Joly and Bossuet to hold their tongues. “Grantaire?”

Grantaire winced, wrinkling his nose and backing up a step. “Well…you see, the thing is, no one gets to see Princess Euphrasie without going through Musichetta first. Her approval is…mandatory.”

Enjan was shaking his head before Grantaire had even finished. “I can’t.”

“Come on, Enjolras –”

“That’s just the problem!” Enjan cried. “How do you know I am Enjolras? I can show up, fine, I can even get cleaned up if you need me to, but I don’t know if I’m really him. I can’t _lie_ to her.”

“It’s not lying if you don’t actually know the truth,” Grantaire insisted, approaching him with his palms up, inviting trust. “We’re not asking you to lie. For all you know, you really are the prince.”

“Do I look like a prince to you?” Enjan swept a hand down at himself. His clothes had been ragged even before the long trek through the snow to Warsaw and today’s walk along a dusty road. He probably stank as well. “I certainly don’t feel like one.”

“Well you won’t with that attitude,” Grantaire snorted. At Enjan’s glare, he sighed. “Look, we’ll help you. Trust me, we’ve got all the information you need, and we’ve got days before we’ll get to Paris. And who knows, perhaps something will jog loose in that pretty head of yours and you’ll remember something useful!”

He sounded so patronising that Enjan could only make a frustrated sound and turn away, heading back up the road to the bridge they’d crossed earlier. _Useful_. What did Grantaire care anyway? He wasn’t the one with no memories of his childhood.

Joly and Bossuet were leaning against the bridge’s railings, Enjan realised too late. He couldn’t go back to Grantaire – he wouldn’t – so he went reluctantly to join them. “Musichetta,” he said. “Is she…when did you last see her?”

“I saw her four years ago.” Bossuet looked at Joly and took his hand, squeezing. “A rare piece of luck.”

“I haven’t seen her since the revolution,” Joly sighed. “We write often, and since I found Bossuet I haven’t been lonely, but still. We’ve missed her.”

“You have nothing to worry about.” Bossuet moved to stand on Enjan’s other side, and together they looked down into the stream below the bridge. “Musichetta’s wonderful, and ever so kind. You don’t have anything to fear.”

“Look at me,” Enjan muttered, nodding at the faint reflection in the water below. “I’m a scrawny nobody with hopes above his stations.”

“No,” Joly protested, but Enjan shook his head, frustration and shame welling up in his throat.

“Be honest. It’s one thing to believe you have family somewhere, but _royal_ family? I’m one orphan out of thousands. What makes me so special?”

“For a start, the very fact that you ask such questions.” Bossuet pressed their shoulders together and smiled at him, and Joly nodded.

“You sell yourself short, Enjan. You’re a good person, clever, resourceful, and you’ve the charisma commanded by many of the imperial court.”

“We’d know.” Bossuet nudged him. “We’ve seen our fair share. I used to be a stable hand at the palace, and Joly was in training to be a doctor, after his father.”

Enjan stretched forward to look past Bossuet, down the road to where Grantaire was pacing barefoot in the grass. “And Grantaire?”

He felt rather than saw Joly and Bossuet exchange a glance over his head. “He was a kitchen boy,” Joly said after a moment. “He would have been trained up to be a hall boy, perhaps later a page, then a footman. He was younger than us when the revolution happened.”

“You knew him then?”

“I’d spoken to him once or twice.” Bossuet followed Enjan’s gaze and Grantaire looked up as though he could tell they were talking about him. “Joly hadn’t. We technically belonged to the same household though – didn’t you wonder why we all have French names?”

“I hadn’t…oh god.” Enjan’s heart dropped through his stomach.

“My ears are burning.” Grantaire swanned onto the bridge and hopped up to sit on the railing next to Bossuet. “What are we all talking about?”

“We have a problem,” Enjan whispered. Grantaire gave him a quizzical look, and he had to swallow twice before he could explain. “The princess is French, isn’t she?”

“Half French,” Joly nodded. “But she might as well be properly French now.”

“So she’ll speak French.” Enjan looked between them. When none of them seemed to grasp it, he whirled to face them properly. “Don’t you see? I don’t! I don’t speak French. Don’t you think that’s going to be a problem?”

“Shit.” Grantaire slid off the railing and frowned. “Okay…it’s okay, we still have a few days.”

“To learn an entire _language?_ ” Enjan could have hit him. “It’s impossible!”

“Well, we’ve come this far.” Bossuet squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. No one will be expecting you to speak French anyway, I’m sure. You’ve lived in Russia since birth after all, it’s only natural that Russian be your first language. Calm down, Enjan. It’s going to be fine.”

“How will this be fine?” Enjan pulled away from him and stalked to the end of the bridge, unable to look any of them in the face. “I’m not a _prince_.”

“You might be.” Joly stepped up behind him, and when Enjan didn’t move away he touched his shoulder. “Even if you aren’t, what have you got to lose? There’s nothing left for you back in Russia. Everything is in Paris now.”

Enjan squeezed his eyes shut. They were silent behind him – waiting for his decision, he realised. What would they do if he refused to continue? What would he do? Would they even let him continue with them to Paris?

Yes, they would. They were too kind to dump him now, after everything they’d been through. They’d nearly died together. That, he realised, was still scaring him. He’d nearly died without ever learning the truth of his past. He wanted to know. He _needed_ to know. And when had he ever let anything stand in his way before?

He took a breath and turned to face them, looking at Grantaire in particular. “You said you had all the information I would need.” He kept his voice steady, and was gratified by the way the three of them relaxed. “If we only have a few days, we’d better get started.”

“That’s the spirit!” Bossuet cheered, and Enjan couldn’t help laughing as he and Joly rushed forward to hug him. Beyond them, Grantaire just grinned.

They began on the road, on their way to the town where the bus would take them to Stralsund. Enjan had expected it to be difficult, but there was something about the way they showed him to walk that came naturally, something about the way they taught him to bow and address imaginary nobles that, while funny, seemed so easy.

“If I can do it, so can you,” Bossuet told him before rattling off the names and titles of a dozen aristocratic families off the top of his head. “It’s all up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “And by tomorrow it’ll be in there too.” He pointed to Enjan’s forehead. That came harder.

“My memory isn’t that good!” Enjan protested, the four of them clustered close in the back of the bus to Stralsund.

“It’s easy,” Joly brushed his concerns away with a flick of his hand. “Once you get the connections between them, they all lead into each other. Now from the top, your paternal uncle was…?”

And as they taught him, they worked in more and more French. The family terms came first, followed by pleasantries, foods, places. It was easy, compared to Russian. Which made no sense, Enjan knew, his head spinning as they slept at a bus station one night later. Russian was his mother tongue, but French seemed to have a better melody, a more pleasant rhythm to the sentences. Not more beautiful, to be sure, but certainly more ordered.

In the morning, it became apparent that Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire had secretly agreed to speak only French from then on, and while Enjan struggled to keep up at first and kept asking them to repeat themselves, by the time they reached Stralsund that afternoon, he felt practically fluent, though he knew they were only sticking to basic phrases. He was sure people didn’t normally learn languages that fast, and deep down the seed of hope that Grantaire and the others had planted began to take root and grow.

Learning French this quickly had to mean something. It felt more like remembering a language than learning one, and if that was what it really was…Enjan inhaled the scent of salt on the breeze and tried not to show his excitement. It wasn’t impossible that he was a long-lost prince. Unlikely, certainly, and embarrassingly self-indulgent, but not impossible.

“Enjolras!”

He snapped out of his reverie and couldn’t hold back a grin as Grantaire beckoned for him to follow them up the gangplank. Even being called ‘Enjolras’ didn’t seem so strange anymore.

 

Enjan stared at the box Grantaire was holding out to him. “What is it? Is it for me?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and shifted the box onto one hand, lifting the lid off with the other. Inside was a pile of black material. “It’s a suit,” Grantaire explained, handing the box to him. “You can’t show up in Paris wearing those rags. Even I don’t look as shabby as you, and that’s saying something.”

Enjan was too surprised to contradict, and Grantaire was gone before he could gather his thoughts, leaving him alone in the room they’d secured on the boat. He and Grantaire had the bunks this time, and Joly and Bossuet had already set up a makeshift pallet on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, Enjan lay the box on the bottom bunk – Grantaire’s bunk – and pulled out the items of clothing.

A white shirt, a black waistcoat and jacket, black trousers, and even a pair of shiny black shoes. Enjan stared at them laid out on the bed for a long minute before he dared undress and put them on. Grantaire must have measured him by eye, and while everything fit, the material felt a little tight in places – across his shoulders, mostly. The shoes were a size too big, but Enjan was used to wearing overlarge boots, so that hardly mattered.

There was no mirror in their room, but Enjan didn’t need one to show him that he was standing taller, pushing his shoulders back and chin up. Dressed like this, he felt like he was allowed to take up a little more space. Impulsively, he ran a hand through his hair, then turned to Joly’s bag and rummaged through it for the comb he’d seen him use.

It took longer to get the knots and tangles out of his hair than it had to get dressed, but he felt even better when it was done. He’d felt flickers of it before, but like this, he really _felt_ like Enjolras, a Russian-French nobleman, not Enjan, a worthless nobody.

There weren’t any other passengers up on the deck when he went out, but he could see Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire hunched over a little table by the prow. Chess, he realised as he got closer, the wind probably destroying what good work he’d been able to manage with the comb. Joly noticed him first, and broke into a huge grin at the sight. “You look wonderful!”

They all looked up at that, and Enjan smiled self-consciously, spreading his arms to let them see everything. Bossuet laughed and got up to curtsey to him, and Enjan bowed in return, remembering all the lessons they’d taught him on the road. “Now you really look like a prince.” Bossuet took his hand and led him further onto the deck. “Dressed for a ball! And now you’ll learn to dance at one as well. Grantaire!”

Joly pushed Grantaire forward towards Enjan, and he grimaced apologetically at Enjan’s shoes. “Really, I’m not –”

“Like this.” Bossuet ignored him and started moving them into position. Enjan held his breath as Bossuet took his hand and placed it firmly on Grantaire’s waist, Grantaire’s opposite hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “Hands up a little higher,” Bossuet instructed.

Grantaire hesitated before taking Enjan’s hand and lifting it. There was half a foot of space between them, but Enjan swore he could feel the heat from Grantaire’s chest as though they were pressed together. “Um –”

“I’m not very good,” Grantaire sighed, but started to lead Enjan backwards to the beat of Bossuet’s counting.

Enjan stumbled, feet finding themselves by some miraculous instinct. “One, two, three,” Bossuet said slowly, letting them find the rhythm. “One, two, three.” Enjan’s view of Grantaire was all hair – the other man was staring resolutely at their feet, and Enjan followed his gaze uncertainly, though he was sure their heads were meant to be tipped up.

“Stop, stop!” Joly laughed and came over to touch their shoulders. Grantaire let go of Enjan immediately, backing up a full step. “R, stop leading. Enjolras, you have to take the control. Here, watch us.” He beckoned to Bossuet and they twirled into the middle of the deck. “I’m leading here, watch me.”

“You’re leading, are you?” Bossuet grinned up at him as Joly grabbed his waist.

“Yes I am. I’m taller.” He ignored Bossuet’s laugh and started to hum. Bossuet counted softly, and Enjan watched with a small smile as they waltzed in slow circles. They were perfectly synchronised, Bossuet seeming to know exactly where Joly was steering him, Joly always aware of how much room they had to use. They ended with Joly twirling Bossuet as gracefully as any lady, and they bowed to each other.

“Like that,” Bossuet grinned at Joly, then at Enjan. “Try again.”

Enjan nodded, filled with new determination. He took Grantaire’s hand this time, and didn’t wait for prompting before putting his hand on Grantaire’s waist and stepping closer, copying the position Joly and Bossuet had been in as they started.

“One, two, three,” Bossuet called, and Enjan took the first step. Grantaire almost stumbled, but tightened his grip on Enjan’s shoulder to recover and moved backwards smoothly, letting Enjan lead.

The tune Joly had been humming was stuck in Enjan’s head, and he moved to it instinctively, guiding Grantaire around the deck in circling triangles. Grantaire was still looking at their feet, and Enjan squeezed his hand to get his attention. “Hey.”

“Mm?” Grantaire’s eyes were wide when he looked up, and Enjan realised with a shock that he was looking _up_. He seemed tall from a distance, but this close it was clear that Enjan had at least an inch or two on him. From this angle he seemed different, though perhaps that was because he wasn’t putting on a smirk or rolling his eyes.

Enjan swallowed. “I think we’re meant to be looking at each other.”

“Oh. Yes, yeah we are.” Grantaire glanced away, then chewed his lip and looked back. Was he blushing? Enjan stared, taking the opportunity to study him properly. He’d shaved – when had he done that? Enjan was sure he’d been bristly yesterday, but his cheeks and neck were smooth now, his sideburns having a definition they hadn’t before.

“You look different.” It came out blunter than Enjan had expected, and he winced. Grantaire just smiled though – not his usual smirk, but something softer, if still lopsided.

“Bossuet found a barber while you were unpacking. He insisted I clean up a bit.”

Enjan took a breath and spun Grantaire the way Joly had spun Bossuet. It worked, to his surprise, and the success gave him the courage to speak again. “You look good.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I wouldn’t if I didn’t mean it.” Grantaire looked at him sharply, but Enjan held his gaze, trying to convey his honesty. After a tense second, Grantaire frowned but relaxed his grip on Enjan’s shoulder. Enjan took the opportunity to spin him again, and Grantaire came back with a lighter expression that became a smile when Enjan used his grip on his waist to turn them away from the railing.

“You know, you should find that barber too.”

“What?”

Grantaire laughed, and Enjan didn’t mind for once that it made heat bloom in his cheeks. "How old are you?"

“Nineteen, maybe.”

“Late developer. You could still use a razor though.”

“I’ll…bear that in mind.”

Grantaire laughed again, and Enjan couldn’t help smiling back, something warm unfolding in the pit of his stomach when Grantaire’s hand shifted against his. The wind was cold now, the sky around them turning darker as dusk fell, but where Grantaire was touching him he felt practically hot. Impulsively, he spun Grantaire again, and they both grinned when they came back together without a hitch.

“Where did you learn to dance?” Enjan asked.

“From Joly, who learned from his father, I think. You’re a natural. But then maybe that’s because you already knew the steps.” He smiled, and Enjan turned them slower, breath catching in his throat. This close, he could see that Grantaire’s eyes were brown, and for some reason that new piece of knowledge made him want to look closer, to learn everything he hadn’t noticed yet.

Grantaire was silent as well, staring right back at him, and Enjan slowed them to a stop without looking away. He wanted to hold Grantaire’s hand properly, to step even closer, to discover whether the rest of Grantaire’s body was as warm as his hands. He wanted…and Grantaire’s lips were parted, his eyes wide in the half-light, so close that Enjan would only have to dip his head a little –

“R!”

Grantaire leapt back, yanking his hands away so quickly that Enjan barely had time to register it. They both looked over as Joly approached, a slightly strained smile in place. “The dinner bell rang, didn’t you hear? Come on, I’m looking forward to a hot meal.”

Grantaire looked back at Enjan just once before nodding and making his way back to the door below decks. Enjan couldn’t be sure in the darkness, but it looked like Grantaire had been flushed, and his steps were definitely hurried. Something in his chest seemed to constrict, but he shook his head and let Bossuet lead him inside. It was probably nothing.

After several glasses of wine at dinner, Grantaire told them all that the waltz had once been considered a scandalous dance because of how close the partners had to get. His leering made Enjan’s skin prickle uncomfortably, and when Grantaire next reached for the wine bottle Enjan leaned forward and covered his hand, both of them holding the neck at once. Grantaire’s smile slid from his face, and he and the others all seemed to hold their breath.

“Grantaire.” Enjan tightened his grip. “Do you really believe I’m the prince?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, the picture of patronising insolence. “You know I do.”

Enjan tugged the bottle away and put it down out of Grantaire’s reach. “Then I’m ordering you to stop. You’ve had more than enough.”

“And just how would you know, your highness?” Grantaire’s expression twisted, but Enjan didn’t move. He’d had plenty of practice turning his face to stone. After a moment’s silence, Grantaire scowled and got up, smacking the side of the table with his hand. “Bah. I’m going to bed. Don’t bother waking me till breakfast.”

Bossuet whistled quietly once Grantaire was out of earshot. “Well that went better than expected.”

Enjan frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“Grantaire doesn’t usually give up the wine without a fight,” Joly explained, a wry smile touching his lips. “But you’ve got that royal command – I suppose he’s helpless to protest.”

It was meant kindly, but Enjan just frowned harder. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was a joke, really.”

“It’s better that he stopped,” Bossuet reassured him. “Less booze means he’s less likely to be sick during the night. I couldn’t drink a drop right now – does it feel like we’re rocking more than earlier?”

By the look of the half-empty dining room, plenty of passengers sympathised with Bossuet and had elected to stay in their cabins rather than risk a meal. Enjan was very glad he appeared to be immune to seasickness.

 

“Don’t bother being quiet,” Joly told him, opening their cabin door. “R could sleep through an earthquake.”

And true to Joly’s statement, Grantaire didn’t so much as stir when Bossuet turned the lights on. Enjan hesitated when Joly pulled his shirt off, but when Bossuet started to change as well he joined them, putting on his old undershirt to sleep in and climbing up to the top bunk.

He doubted he would have been as relaxed about showing his bare skin in front of Grantaire, but he tried to put those thoughts from his mind. One more day and night on the boat, and then on the following morning they would arrive in Le Havre. And from there…Paris. Paris, and maybe his family.

But maybe no more friends?

Joly switched the lights out and flopped down onto his and Bossuet’s makeshift bed with a grunt, and Enjan rolled over in the dark to face them. “Are you going to stay in Paris?”

“If Musichetta will have us,” Bossuet’s voice held a smile that Enjan couldn’t help returning, though he knew it wouldn’t be seen.

“What about Grantaire?” he whispered after a moment.

Joly made an uncertain sound. “He hasn’t talked about it. I don’t know if he’s decided.”

“Oh.” Enjan curled up, pulling the blanket up to his ear.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bossuet said. “We’ve got a few days left. Goodnight, Enjolras.”

“Night,” Enjan murmured. He didn’t realise until a few seconds later what Bossuet had called him. Somehow it had become completely normal over the past few days. Out of the suit though, Enjan felt more like an orphan than a prince. 

Sleep shouldn’t have come so easily, but perhaps it was the rocking motion of the boat that lulled him off, because quite suddenly he was _in a field._

_The air was hot and fragrant with the perfume of the flowers around him. Russian flowers, ones he recognised but didn’t know the names of. He reached out lazily to pull a stem towards him, and turned as someone called his name._

_“Enjolras!”_

_His sister. He smiled in reply and she giggled, beckoning. “Come on, Enjolras, we’re waiting for you!” She was just as he remembered – tiny and blonde with eyes full of mischief. She danced forward, then back when he sat up properly and saw that she wanted him to come to a little dirt path. “Come on!” she insisted, and he pushed himself to his feet with a grin._

_The ground swayed underneath him for a moment, and he almost fell. But his sister was there, leading him on over a ridge, her bare feet beautiful in the dust. “I’m coming,” he called. He always indulged her, the darling of the family, the precious baby girl. “Slow down.”_

_“Hurry up!” She laughed and pointed ahead as he climbed the ridge. It was steeper than it looked – he was almost on his hands and knees trying to get up it, and still everything seemed to be swaying. Not that it mattered. “Enjolras, come on!”_

_“I’m coming!” he laughed, and gasped as he reached the top and saw them on the other side of a little gorge. His parents, holding hands and smiling, beckoning as well. He reached out, an ache in his chest, but they jumped before he could say anything, a splash coming from the gorge as they landed in what must have been a river below._

_“Enjolras,” his sister sang, and danced up to the edge. “We’re waiting for you. Come on!”_

_He lurched forward and slipped, but got to his feet again and hurried after her to the edge of the drop. It wasn’t as far down as he’d thought – only five or six feet. And his parents were floating below, smiling and waiting for him. As he watched, holding onto the branch of a tree for support, his mother reached up and laughed._

_“Come on, darling! The water’s lovely.”_

_His sister squealed and leapt in, and Enjolras laughed at the splash. His family, his family who loved him and wanted him to join them –_

“Enjan!”

_His name? He turned, frowning, and gasped when the ground under him tipped backwards and the sounds of the river below vanished in an instant._

_“Jump!” A demon rose in front of him, its eyes the same as his mother’s for a second before they glowed red. He clutched the branch as the scene around him dissolved, the heat rising as the land cracked and fell into lava, the sky turning black with smoke. His family was gone, burned away, and Enjolras screamed as the demon’s claws latched around his free hand, crushing the bones and burning, claws digging in, drawing blood – “Jump!” It would pull him into the fire and he would burn, he would die – “JUMP! The Romanov Curse!” the demon roared, and another monster grabbed him from behind._

_“No!” Enjolras struggled, letting go of the branch to try and fight off the attackers. “No,_ let me go, stop!”

“Enjan! Enjan, wake up!”

Grantaire. Enjan’s chest heaved, terror still pounding through him. There was no fire, no demons – they were outside on the deck, and the boat was pitching and rolling underneath them, freezing rain soaking both of them through.

“Enjan…” Grantaire was holding him, and they were both panting. Enjan tensed, about to pull away, but as the deck tilted Grantaire adjusted his grip to support him and he ended up falling forward against his chest, sucking in a shaky breath. He knew he’d just seen the faces of his family but he could no longer remember what any of them looked like, or whether they’d really been his at all.

“The curse,” he managed to get out before the lump in his throat overwhelmed him and his face crumpled. Grantaire’s arms went round him, holding him steady.

“Enjan, what are you talking about?”

“The Romanov Curse.” Enjan clung to him, still too scared to be embarrassed. “I saw faces, I can’t remember – everything was burning!”

“It’s alright.” Grantaire squeezed him, and some of the tension drained out of Enjan’s shoulders in response. “It was a nightmare, you’re okay now. Come on, we need to get out of this.” He kept one arm wrapped firmly around Enjan’s waist as they went down. Somehow, Enjan had ended up on one of the highest decks. He’d been about to leap over the edge, he realised as Grantaire helped him down the steps. The demon had been about to drag him into the sea.

It was worse than the train. Enjan started to shiver as soon as they were inside, and he couldn’t seem to stop crying. Breathless, half-hysterical little sobs he couldn’t quite choke down. It was too much at once. He’d only left the orphanage five days ago. Or was it six? Either way he’d almost died twice, and he wanted to curl up and disappear forever.

Joly and Bossuet were awake when they got back to their cabin, and Joly took one look at them and ordered them to strip. “You’re soaked, what the hell were you doing out there?”

“Nice night for a romantic stroll?” Bossuet gave them an incredulous look which Grantaire waved off.

“Enjan had a nightmare.” He hadn’t called him Enjolras, Enjan realised, teeth beginning to chatter. It bothered him, though he couldn’t have said why.

Joly stopped them sitting on the bottom bunk to save the mattress from the water, and Enjan accepted his help in getting his shirt and pants off, hugging the provided towel tight around his shoulders. “Sit,” Joly said firmly, pulling Enjan down onto a blanket Bossuet spread on the floor. Once he was seated, Joly sat behind him, pulling Enjan back against his chest.

“Is this necessary?” Enjan whispered.

“Yes,” Joly and Bossuet said in unison. Opposite them, Bossuet was manhandling Grantaire into the same position.

“Sit still,” he huffed. “Listen to the doctor.” He looked over at Enjan. “A nightmare?”

If he’d had any warm blood left in him, Enjan would have flushed. “I’m sorry. I – I don’t usually, I mean, I’ve never had anything like that, and I’ve never walked in my sleep before.”

“You’ve never been on a boat before,” Joly pointed out. His long legs bracketed Enjan’s, his arms firmly wrapped around him. He and Bossuet had divided their duties well – Enjan was too tall for Bossuet to have taken Joly’s place, and Grantaire too broad for Joly to easily hug him like this.

“It’s not the boat.” As soon as he spoke, Enjan shook his head. He had nothing to go on but a feeling, after all. He was being foolish. “Sorry, I don’t know that. I don’t know anything.” A couple more tears followed the wet trails already marking his cheeks and he ducked his head, hoping none of them had noticed.

“You know plenty.” Grantaire stretched a leg out and nudged Enjan’s bare foot with his own. “Your mother’s ancestry, for instance.”

Joly and Bossuet made disapproving noises – “Is this really the time?” – but Enjan nodded and relaxed a fraction, the names already coming to mind.

“It’s alright,” he said quietly. “I can do this.” He stopped shivering as he recited the names and titles, going further back in time until he ran out of information and looked at Grantaire for approval. The smile he got warmed him better than Joly’s body heat.

“Good job. Now your father’s side.”

When Grantaire got up to pull on a new shirt and shorts, Enjan looked away, waiting for him to turn around before accepting Bossuet’s offer of a spare nightshirt and slipping into it hastily. Joly locked the cabin door before turning the lights out, but Enjan couldn’t get back to sleep. The boat wasn’t rolling as badly as before, but he still couldn’t drop off. Every time he got close, the demon would flash back into his mind and he’d jerk awake, heart pounding.

It had felt so real. He even checked his wrist as best he could in the darkness, squinting for signs of bruises, touching it to find evidence of where claws had broken his skin. Of course there was nothing – it had only been a dream – but he still half-expected to find marks. Worse still was the uncertainty the dream had created. It had felt so real, but how could he know the people he’d seen had really been his family? They had been Enjolras’, that much he could grasp, but were they _his?_

Whether or not they were, his chest ached at the loss, and he couldn’t help crying a little bit more as the others slept.

In the morning, both he and Grantaire stayed in bed while Joly and Bossuet went to breakfast, promising to bring back bread rolls and butter for when either of them recovered their appetites. Enjan lay awake on his front, hyper-aware of Grantaire lying just a few feet below him.

“Any more nightmares?” Grantaire asked after a while, voice scratchy from sleep.

“I couldn’t really sleep at all.”

“Ah. I know a cure for that, if you’re interested…”

“If it’s alcohol, I’m not.”

Grantaire snorted, but it sounded more amused than annoyed. “Very well, your highness.”

They fell back into silence, and Enjan closed his eyes. It might be possible to doze in the light of day – he felt far safer and warmer than he had last night. But an opportunity to talk to Grantaire alone was rare, and he found himself inching closer to the edge of his bunk to ask, “Grantaire?”

“Mm?”

“Are you going to stay in Paris? With Joly and Bossuet?”

“I think I’d be something of a broken fourth wheel if I did.” He didn’t sound like he minded though. “No, I don’t know. I doubt I’ll go back to Russia though.”

“You hated it that much?”

“I have no love for Russians. Maybe I’ll prefer the French.”

Enjan frowned. “What’s wrong with Russians?”

Silence for a long minute, but just as Enjan was about to apologise for his nosiness, Grantaire cleared his throat. “Nothing, I suppose. It’s leftover family resentment, is all.”

“I thought you were French?”

“Only half. Just like you, in fact – my father was Russian. Maybe still is Russian; I wouldn’t know.”

Enjan’s curiosity took over. “Why not?”

“He left my mother after he knocked her up. Not that they were ever engaged – she was a new French maid, he was a scoundrel. Left her in a right bind when he fucked off, and I was hardly better off.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone knew he was the father, but he wouldn’t take any of the responsibility. Flat-out refused to marry my mother and even moved away to get rid of the drama. An asshole if there ever was one.” The bitterness in Grantaire’s voice was palpable, and Enjan frowned, curling up under his blanket. “My mother was lucky not to be sacked, but she was never promoted after she had me. Another mouth to feed is one matter, but a bastard’s just embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“She shouldn’t have been treated like that. What happened to her?” he asked cautiously.

“Killed in the October Revolution. She stayed in the palace to serve the provisional government, and somebody shot her. Wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose. I was well away by then; didn’t find out for over a week.”

Words of condemnation burned on Enjan’s lips, but he bit them back. Just because he would give anything to have a mother, it didn’t give him the right to judge Grantaire’s situation. Still, he couldn’t help asking, “Do you miss her?”

“Can you miss someone you barely knew? I missed Le Gros more. He was a butler. Your butler, in fact.”

“He was?”

Grantaire laughed, and Enjan sighed internally as the door opened and Joly and Bossuet returned. “I’ve found a gap in Enjolras’ education,” Grantaire told them.

“That so?” Joly smiled at Enjan as he sat up and passed him a bread roll. “What’s that?”

“He doesn’t know the names of his old servants.”

“You think he should know all of them? Or just the ones he actually saw?” Bossuet asked. “Because I never came near the Golovins, for all that I was supposed to be in their pay. No offense, Enjolras.”

Enjan shrugged. Grantaire got out of bed and stretched, groaning. “Maybe just the main ones. Le Gros, Fauchelevent, those old birds.”

“En Français,” Joly added, giving Enjan a small smile. “Oui?”

They drilled him all day, and Joly insisted on all of them getting outside when the weather turned nicer, claiming the sea air was good for the lungs. Back inside that afternoon, Grantaire had a whispered discussion with the other two that ended with them all nodding and Joly slipping out. He returned with a pair of scissors and a razor, and Enjan was sat down opposite Grantaire with his shirt off and a towel draped round his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he asked nervously.

“You need a haircut, your highness,” Grantaire told him. “Don’t worry, I do this for Joly all the time.” Enjan sat perfectly still as little wisps of blonde hair were snipped from his head, floating down around him like feathers. “How does it look?” Grantaire asked Bossuet, observing from the opposite wall. He nodded.

“A little more on the right to even it up, but then it’ll be great. You need to shave as well,” he added to Enjan. “I take it you’ve never done that before?”

Enjan touched his chin and would have shaken his head if Grantaire’s scissors hadn’t still been snipping away. “No. I…I’ve never really needed to.” Embarrassing to admit, considering how old he was, but Bossuet just nodded.

“You’ll look better clean-shaven, all the same. R?”

“Yes, I can do it.” Grantaire sounded amused. A trickle of warmth flowed down from Enjan’s scalp when Grantaire ruffled his hair, brushing out the last loose strands. “There. Let’s get you to the sink then.”

Being shaved was even more intimate than having his hair cut. Enjan kept his eyes lowered and concentrated on keeping his breathing steady and slow as Grantaire smeared soap on his face and tipped his chin up with two gentle fingers, holding him still while he scraped the razor down Enjan’s cheek.

He was acutely aware of how easily Grantaire could hurt him as he moved down to Enjan’s jaw and throat. A slip of the blade, and Enjan would be bleeding out on the cabin floor. But Grantaire was careful and thorough, his fingertips warm against Enjan’s skin where they turned his head to face the razor. When Grantaire lifted Enjan’s chin with his knuckle, his thumb resting just under Enjan’s lip, Enjan had to close his eyes properly, something hot and pleasant blooming in the pit of his stomach. It was like when they had danced, only they were so much closer now.

When Grantaire finally pulled away and declared the job finished, Enjan shivered and tried to cover it by turning to look at himself in the mirror above the cabin’s little sink. For a moment, a stranger blinked back, but then Enjan saw himself in the reflection. He did look cleaner, Bossuet had been right. And older without the patchy stubble.

“You look good, Prince Enjolras,” Grantaire smirked from beside him. “The girls in Paris will be falling over themselves for a kiss from you.”

“They’ll be wasting their time.” It was safe to admit this here, but Enjan still couldn’t look any of them in the eye as he spoke. “I’d prefer the boys of Paris over the girls.”

Joly’s long whistle made him blush, but Bossuet’s hand on his shoulder made him smile. “And lucky boys they’d be too,” Bossuet grinned. “Come on, the dinner bell should ring any second.”

Enjan sneaked a look at Grantaire as they left to judge his reaction, and hid a smile when he saw how flustered he looked. At dinner, Grantaire filled up Enjan’s glass every time he came close to finishing it. “For one thing,” he said when Enjan protested, “it’ll help you sleep. For another, you are half French, and that means liking wine is in your blood. Drink up, my prince." 

Enjan still wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the ‘my prince’ that kept the flush in his cheeks well past their departure from the dining room, but the alcohol had the effect Grantaire had promised. Enjan slept soundly through the night, though he woke up with a headache for his trouble.

 

He was ready. Grantaire sat next to Joly in front of Bossuet and Enjolras on the bus to Paris and ran through the plan one final time, though in truth he hadn’t felt nervous about it for days. He hadn’t thought of Enjan as anything but Enjolras for most of the time they’d been travelling, and with the young man in a suit with his hair combed, it was easy to forget the way he’d looked in the palace. The thin, ragged boy both fierce and scared was gone, and in his place was a true prince.

Princess Euphrasie hadn’t seen her brother for over ten years, and if she did have any doubts, all Grantaire had to do was produce the jewellery box. How many people other than Euphrasie would know about such a thing? He’d give her the box and a brother, she’d give him, Joly, and Bossuet ten million roubles.

He was finding it increasingly difficult to think about the next part. Joly and Bossuet could pin the deception on him if they liked, it didn’t matter to him. They could stay in Paris with their Musichetta and he would go…somewhere. Perhaps over the channel. Perhaps even further, to America. With so much money, he could go anywhere he liked.

But where would Enjolras go?

Grantaire shook his head and looked out of the window, counting down the minutes. Soon they would be in Paris, and the final phase of the plan would come to fruition. It was far too late to get cold feet now.

All of them were awestruck by Paris. Spring was in full bloom here, and Grantaire could barely bring himself to blink in case he missed anything. Compared to the bleakness of St. Petersburg, Paris was a feast. There was so much colour, so much noise and light and glitz. The people strutted down the streets with such assurance, their clothes so pristine and bright, the cafés spilling patrons out onto the pavements.

Grantaire ached to explore, but Bossuet and Joly were on a mission to find Musichetta’s townhouse, so all he could do was stare as they passed tantalising destinations and tempting sights. In his bewitched state, he almost stepped out in front of a car and had to be yanked back by Enjolras. “Careful!”

He’d spoken in Russian, and Grantaire shook his head. “French, remember?” He laughed at Enjolras’ scowl. “My apologies, if I worried you.”

“You should stay in the city for a while, if you find it so enchanting,” Enjolras said, releasing his arm. Grantaire straightened his jacket and shrugged.

“Perhaps. We’ll see.”

“So cryptic!” Bossuet laughed from up ahead. “Hurry up, dawdlers, we’re almost there.”

“Didn’t he say that half an hour ago?” Enjolras muttered in Russian, and Grantaire bit back a smile that faded to nothing as Enjolras walked on. A day more of this, perhaps less, and this would be over.

“R!” Joly called, and Grantaire shook his head and ran to catch up. He couldn’t lose his head now. One more day, and he would have enough money for a new life far away from Russia. He would have enough for food and wine, enough to stop stealing and smuggling and forging. One more day and he could have the life he’d always wanted – nothing fancy or impressive, just a place to call his own and a little security with it. No more criminals. No more struggling just to stay alive.

He just had to stay focused on his goal.

Musichetta’s townhouse was huge and beautiful, with a large front garden to keep the sounds of the road at a distance from the house. “You’re sure this is the place?” he asked Bossuet as they walked up the front path. He and Joly were practically bouncing with excitement, and Bossuet nodded.

“Positive. We’ve written enough letters to this address, after all.” He and Joly clutched each other’s hands as Joly rang the doorbell. A maid opened the door a moment later, but before she could say a word there was a shriek from inside, and she leapt back just in time for another woman to throw herself at Joly and Bossuet.

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. Musichetta was as beautiful as Joly and Bossuet had always said. Her skin was darker than Bossuet’s, her dark curls piled up on top of her head with a few strands curling down to her shoulders, and when she kissed her lovers on each of their mouths, her smile was too wide for it to be lingering.

“At last!” she declared. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for decades! Come in, come in.” She beckoned to Grantaire and Enjolras as well, and Grantaire took a deep breath as they stepped over the threshold. This was the first hurdle. If they could convince Musichetta, they would be one step closer to Euphrasie and the reward money.

He had to focus on the goal.

Musichetta led them into a beautifully decorated little parlour, and it was Bossuet who gestured grandly to Enjolras before they sat down. “May I present his Highness Prince Enjolras Vladislav Aleksei Golovin.”

“You were being serious,” Musichetta said slowly. Grantaire retreated to the back of the room while Joly and Bossuet sat down and helped themselves to tea, watching as Musichetta circled Enjolras. “Well he certainly looks like the prince. But then, many of the others have as well. Sit down, monsieur.” She smiled suddenly, and Grantaire breathed out as the tense line of Enjolras’ shoulders eased. “Now, can you tell me where you were born?”

“The Winter Palace, in 1909.”

“Quite correct.” They sat, and Musichetta poured tea, and Grantaire leaned against the fireplace and tried to be invisible. They’d rehearsed this, he reminded himself. Enjolras knew everything back to front, and even his French was good now. He was only stumbling on a few words, and Musichetta was speaking slowly enough that he didn’t have to ask her to repeat herself. Whether she was doing it because that was her style, or because she’d noticed Enjolras’ hesitations, Grantaire didn’t care. As long as Enjolras did well.

The questions were well thought-out. She began with genealogy, then society, and then honed in on the Golovins’ private lives. Luckily, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire had had plenty of time to piece together a detailed picture of the routines and habits of their old employers, and Enjolras answered every question without a hitch.

If he sounded a little rehearsed here and there, well, that could be put down to his difficulties with French.

They had nothing to worry about. Still, Grantaire had to push down the urge to pace, the nervous energy almost more than he could handle. If they’d come all this way only to fail now…

Enjolras would be devastated.

Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment and berated himself. If they failed now, they’d have ruined themselves for nothing. They’d spent everything they had to get to Paris, and if they failed they’d be penniless. _That_ would be devastating.

“A final question,” Musichetta said at last, and she smiled at Joly’s audible sigh of relief. “If you’ll indulge me. Your parents were tragically killed in the siege on the palace – how is it that you escaped?”

Grantaire froze.

Enjolras was silent, frowning, and Grantaire turned away and squeezed his eyes shut. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have forgotten? Because he’d known all along how the prince and princess had escaped the palace, he’d somehow overlooked the tiny detail of _Enjan_ not knowing. Euphrasie had doubtless told her friend the whole story, and now Enjolras was stumbling. Grantaire had left him in the lurch, and they were all going down with him.

“There was…” Enjolras started, hesitant. “I mean…we were with Fauchelevent, and…there was a boy. A servant boy, and he…this sounds ridiculous, I’m sorry.”

Grantaire couldn’t breathe. For a long moment his eyes stayed fixed on the floor, and he had to consciously force himself to look over at Enjolras. Musichetta leaned forward and shook her head. “No, no, please continue.”

“I don’t remember, but I think…” Enjolras frowned. “I think he opened a wall. I’m sorry, it sounds –”

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” Musichetta smiled and turned to say something to Bossuet. Grantaire couldn’t hear them over the thudding in his ears. He held on so tightly to the mantelpiece that his knuckles turned white, the world seeming to spin around him.

He’d barely seen the prince that night. He’d been so scared himself, so caught up in finding a familiar face that he’d only glanced at the Golovin children. But he’d saved them, pushed Fauchelevent towards the panel _in the wall_.

There was a lump in his throat, and he swallowed furiously as he straightened up, wrenching his attention back to the present day. Musichetta was on her feet and Joly was beaming at her. “So when do we see the princess?”

Musichetta’s smile faded and she gave Enjolras an apologetic look. “I’m afraid you don’t. You see, the princess has seen so many frauds over these past few years. She’s engaged, you know, and she’s been putting off the marriage because she wanted her brother to be there for her wedding. But she’s decided not to wait any longer.”

“She won’t see Enjolras?” Bossuet was aghast. “Chetta, no, we’ve come so far –”

“There has to be something you can do,” Joly pleaded. Enjolras stayed seated, but Grantaire saw the way he gripped the arms of his chair. He was upset, and hiding it badly. “Please, some way you can engineer a meeting.”

Musichetta pursed her lips, then turned round to wink at Grantaire. “Do you like the Russian ballet? The princess and I simply _adore_ it.”

She would pay, Grantaire understood with a rush of relief as the plan was settled. They would go to the ballet and sneak into the princess’ box during the intermission. At the first opportunity, Grantaire escaped to the garden. He couldn’t stop staring at Enjolras now that he knew the truth. He’d hoped, to be sure, deep down and unadmitted. Enjolras had picked up French so quickly, and adopted courtly mannerisms with such ease. But that he truly was the prince…

“We did it!” Joly shouted from the steps behind him, and dashed down to grab Grantaire in a hug. “We did it, can you believe it! Enjan – Enjolras was spectacular, don’t you think? Absolutely perfect! And now, now there’s only the final test. If he can just convince the princess –”

“We have nothing to worry about,” Grantaire told him quietly.

Joly clapped his shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Enjolras will be –”

“No, Joly.” He had to tell someone. He had to, or he’d explode. He squeezed Joly’s arm, meeting his eyes. “He really is the prince. What he said in there, about his escape from the palace, it’s all true. I was the boy who opened the wall. That was where I got the jewellery box – the children and Fauchelevent came back to the parlour to get it, and I shoved them out the servants’ passages before the soldiers could see them. I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even you.”

Joly’s eyes were wide, and the lump in Grantaire’s throat was returning in force. He stepped back and shook his head. “It’s really him. We really found the lost prince.”

“God…” Joly whispered. “Are you serious?”

“I am.” There was a stone bench under the nearest tree, and Grantaire sank onto it gracelessly. The relief was suddenly overwhelming, as was the shame. He wouldn’t be abandoning Enjolras or lying to anyone, not with Enjolras actually being the prince. But he’d been about to. He would have taken his share of the money and left Enjolras in the dust, broke and alone with not a friend in the world. He was a selfish, despicable coward who didn’t deserve for Enjolras to so much as look at him.

“But this is wonderful, isn’t it?” Joly sat next to him, smiling disbelievingly. “We really found the prince! And Enjolras has really found his family! We have to tell him.”

“No.”

“No?” Joly stared at him, and Grantaire took a deep breath.

“Nothing’s changed. As far as he’s concerned, we always thought he was the prince. Why would we have kept this from him until now? We go ahead with the plan.”

“And you?” Joly poked his leg, accusing. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Grantaire shook his head. “Princes don’t fall in love with people like me, Joly. We finish the plan, and I walk out of his life forever. He deserves better than someone who was going to use him to trick someone out of ten million roubles, and you know it.”

“But we’re not tricking anyone,” Joly protested. “And you two –”

“Are from completely different worlds.” Grantaire got to his feet. Any reply Joly might have made was cut off when Enjolras emerged from the house, grinning when he saw them.

“There you are. Musichetta’s going to take us shopping for the ballet tomorrow! Come on, we’re about to leave.” He disappeared back inside, and Grantaire’s heart clenched.

“Don’t tell him,” he told Joly quietly. “Please?”

Joly sighed. “I won’t. But I think you’re making a huge mistake.”

“Trust me, this is the one thing I’m doing right.”

 

Shopping in Paris was a dizzying experience. Enjan could barely keep up with everything that was happening – all the shop assistants spoke so quickly and flirted so outrageously that it was all he could do to laugh along. They were terrifyingly physical as well, completely uninhibited about touching him all over. It was their job to measure him for the clothes, Enjan reminded himself, jumping every time a hand pinched appreciatively at his skin.

From the startled squeaks and yelps coming from the changing rooms either side of his, it sounded like Joly and Bossuet were getting the same treatment, which was something of a relief. After what felt like an age, he was eventually dressed in clothes which the assistants assured him were the height of fashion, and he was pushed out of the changing room for Musichetta’s judgement.

She’d changed as well, into a floaty lilac number that accentuated her curves perfectly. She clapped her hands when she saw him. “Gorgeous! Have you seen yourself yet, Enjolras? Look in a mirror, you look divine!”

One of the assistants turned him to face a full-length looking glass, and Enjan caught his breath. His jacket and trousers were pale grey, which made the dark red of his waistcoat and his black tie stand out starkly. His hair had been brushed back from his face, and his shoes fit perfectly, shining under the store’s lights. He looked amazing. A thousand worlds away from the boy he’d been in Russia.

“Enchanting,” Musichetta declared. He turned to face her and laughed when he saw she was talking to Joly and Bossuet. Bossuet’s suit was dark blue, and Joly’s striped in maroon and grey. Both looked extremely handsome, and Musichetta kissed them both.

They waited for Grantaire to emerge, but when ten minutes passed and there was no sign of him, Enjan and Bossuet sneaked back into the changing rooms to find him. They had to shuffle through half a dozen assistants to get to Grantaire’s cubicle, and arrived just in time to see a woman – clearly senior staff – throw up her hands in despair and call for, “The same style in green! Oh, monsieurs.” She flapped a hand at them. “I’m afraid your friend is not quite ready yet, if you could just –”

“Hello?” Grantaire popped his head around the curtain and sighed when he saw Enjan and Bossuet. “Apparently I’m a difficult case. Nothing looks good on me.”

“You’re impossible,” the woman huffed, and stepped back as Grantaire came out. He was in black trousers and a white shirt with a brown waistcoat, unbuttoned and gaping. Enjan frowned, and Grantaire nodded as though he’d made a comment and shrugged at the woman.

“I know, Madame Boissy, but what can I do? My face can’t be covered by a waistcoat or a jacket.”

“It doesn’t need to be,” Enjan said. “There’s nothing wrong with your face.”

“His face is difficult,” Madame Boissy said flatly. “It is a fact. Also, his arms are too long, and his torso too short. He is out of proportion.”

“That’s what fitted suits are for, aren’t they?” Enjan frowned at her, but she just sighed.

“It is harder to fit a suit for a body like his than a body like yours, monsieur. Now please, I must have space to work.” She shooed him and Bossuet out, and Enjan sat down in the main shop again with a disgruntled expression that the others laughed at.

“Grantaire’s a rarer type of handsome, that’s all,” Joly smiled. “And he doesn’t need looks to be good at what he’s good at.”

“Which is what?” Enjan asked, suddenly curious. He couldn’t imagine Joly meant smuggling stolen goods – surely body type had no bearing on a career like that.

“He’s an excellent fighter. He can box, fence, and much more besides. It’s how we’d make money in a pinch – he’d go to the ring and we’d bet money on his matches.”

“And he was good? He’d win?” Enjan could see it in his head, Grantaire in some dimly-lit basement with his fists wrapped, sweating as he fought another man to the cheers of a surrounding crowd.

“Often enough to be a solid bet. It was always a last resort though – even if you win, you can sustain terrible injuries. He’s broken more ribs than I care to remember.”

Enjan winced. A movement in the changing room caught his eye, and they all rose to their feet as Grantaire was finally produced. He was wearing dark brown trousers and a bottle-green waistcoat over a white shirt, a brown jacket held over his arm. Despite the displeased twist to his mouth, Enjan thought he looked striking, and had to bite his tongue to avoid blurting it out.

“At last,” Musichetta sighed, and went over to kiss Grantaire’s cheeks. “Well worth the wait, I think. You look fabulous. And now we must dash!”

“Are we late for something?” Bossuet blinked, his surprise melting into a pleased smile when Musichetta slipped her arm through his.

“Not at all. But I want to show you a good time for your first night in Paris.” She winked over her shoulder at Enjan. “Keep up, your highness!”

Paris during the day had been beautiful. Paris in the evening was a whirlwind. Every other car seemed to be overflowing with beautiful young people, groups of sharply-dressed men and women giggling as they danced from one bar to the next. Musichetta took them to a jazz club and dragged them all onto the dance floor after buying them drinks to ‘loosen their limbs’.

It was very different to the waltz. Much faster, for one thing, with less touching but somehow more heat. Enjan found himself dancing with a young woman in a beaded dress who probably couldn’t have stopped herself moving if paid to do so. It was _fun_ though. When they left the club, Enjan was breathless with laughter, holding onto Grantaire for support.

They went to a bar after that, not far from the club. It was much calmer, and Enjan stretched out in his chair and smiled, shaking his head at his good fortune. From a Russian orphanage to _this_. He had to be the luckiest man in the world.

Grantaire kept looking at him as well, and though Enjan pretended not to notice, it made sparks dance under his skin. If they had a good enough time tonight, perhaps Grantaire would be persuaded to stay in Paris. Once they’d recovered themselves a little, Musichetta led them on to another club. “Perhaps a little more to your tastes,” she smirked at Enjan and Grantaire as they went in.

Enjan thought at first that the club was filled with particularly loud women, but a moment’s closer inspection revealed that the majority of the patrons were actually men dressed as women. “Fuck,” Grantaire murmured beside him. “Can you imagine anything like this in St. Petersburg?”

Bossuet overheard and started to laugh so hard Joly had to hold him up.

Musichetta bought them all shots of something green and foul-smelling, and after two rounds Enjan was feeling decidedly looser, relaxed enough to let Joly pull him onto the dance floor. All five of them danced until their feet ached and Musichetta led them out. “The key to a good night out is variation and rhythm,” she told them as they stumbled up the road. “We’ve danced! Now it’s time to sit back and watch someone else do the hard work.”

The Moulin Rouge was their next destination, and Enjan sat behind Grantaire at their table and watched with wide eyes as a woman sang on the stage before them, slowly removing her clothing item by item. She used a fantastically fluffy feather boa to conceal herself, and Enjan found himself mesmerised by its movements. “How on earth does she keep it up?” he wondered out loud. “How come doesn’t she drop it?”

“Practice,” Musichetta laughed from her seat in Bossuet’s lap. “And talent.”

“What happened to the boys of Paris?” Grantaire asked, quiet enough that only Enjan heard him.

“I can appreciate her skill without wanting her body,” Enjan replied, far franker than he would have been sober. “Can’t you?”

Grantaire didn’t reply, but Enjan didn’t have time to dwell on it. From the Moulin Rouge, Musichetta took them to yet another club, thankfully not as rowdy as the first two. She, Joly, and Bossuet danced while Enjan and Grantaire sat at the side, both of them smiling at the sight.

It was plain to see that they all adored each other, and something in Enjan yearned for what they had. It was similar to the ache he felt when he thought about his family, and the certainty that they had loved him before he’d become lost. Surely there could be nothing better in the world than being loved? To be treasured and cared for, and to return those feelings in equal measure?

They caught a taxi back to Musichetta’s townhouse, and Enjan fell asleep in the back. He woke to find his head had slipped onto Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire was shaking him awake. “Come on, Enjolras,” he said softly. “It’s nearly four in the morning.”

“When do we need to get up?” Enjan mumbled, letting Grantaire help him from the car. Musichetta overheard as she paid for their ride and shook her head.

“Sleep in as late as you like. As long as we’re at the opera house by seven in the evening – that’s the important thing.” She stifled a yawn. Once inside, she pointed Enjan and Grantaire to separate rooms before pulling Joly and Bossuet into her own. Enjan peeled himself out of his new suit and only managed to stay awake long enough to drape it over the back of a chair so that it wouldn’t wrinkle before he collapsed into the bed. It was blissfully soft, and in less than a minute he was asleep once more.

 

As well as clothes for their night out, Musichetta had also bought them formal suits for the opera. The high, stiff collar and tight waistcoat already had Enjan feeling tense, and every time he thought about meeting Princess Euphrasie later something dropped in his stomach. He could hardly believe that just the night before he’d been laughing and dancing like someone with nothing at stake. Now, on the steps of the opera house, he was so nervous he wanted to be sick.

Musichetta was sitting with Euphrasie in a private box, but she’d bought them tickets for the upper circle. Enjan sat next to Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet behind them, and took the binoculars when Grantaire handed them to him. “There,” Grantaire whispered, pointing across the space. “That’s her.”

Enjan lifted the binoculars and scanned the boxes till he found Musichetta. And there, right next to her was a beautiful young woman with fair hair held up with jewelled pins. Next to her was a man Enjan assumed was her finance – something Pontmercy, Musichetta had told them earlier.

Euphrasie Golovin. He lowered the binoculars with a trembling hand and swallowed as the lights fell, sending up a small prayer. _Please let her remember me_. The music burst to life, filling the hall, and Enjan settled in to wait. He was already sweating, and he couldn’t stop jiggling his leg.

The ballet was _Cinderella_ , and he tried to pay attention, but his gaze kept being drawn back to the princess’ box. At some point he completely lost track of what was going on, and he jumped when Grantaire’s hand settled on his shaking knee.

“Relax,” he whispered, and Enjan nodded, trying to look confident. If the intermission didn’t come soon, he was going to throw up over the people sitting in front of them. When the lights went up, Grantaire took his arm and nodded to Joly and Bossuet. “Time to meet your destiny,” he told Enjan, smiling crookedly.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Enjan muttered, following Grantaire up the steps.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Grantaire told him. “Everything’s going to be fine.” He kept up the reassurances as they walked through the ornately decorated theatre corridors to the side where they would find the princess’ private box. With every step, Enjan couldn’t help becoming more aware of how out of place he was. Everyone they passed was so richly dressed, so obviously born into wealth and greatness. Enjan kept expecting them to start staring, then shouting in outrage and turning on him. He belonged on the street, not in an opera house. 

“This is it.” Grantaire stopped them in front of a door, and Enjan took a step back from it involuntarily. “Hey, hey, hey.” Grantaire took his elbow and pulled him close again. “Relax, it’s going to be fine. I’ll go in first and introduce you properly, and you just follow. Trust me, as soon as she sees you, she’ll know.” He turned to go, and Enjan grabbed at his arm.

“Wait, Grantaire…”

“Yes?” Grantaire faced him, eyes a little wider than normal.

Enjan’s stomach twisted – nerves or excitement? He couldn’t tell. “I just…I wanted to say…” God, what was he doing?

“Yes?” Grantaire prompted.

There was no time to think, so Enjan looked down and shook his head, nerves failing him. “Thank you. I wanted to say thank you for everything, for all of this.”

When he glanced up, Grantaire was frowning. It vanished the moment he saw Enjan looking, and he smiled. “It’s nothing. Enjolras…” he added, hesitantly. 

“Yes?” Something in Enjan’s chest fluttered, and swiftly died when Grantaire sighed.

“Good luck.” He took Enjan’s hand and shook it, squeezing more than was perhaps necessary before letting go as if burned. Enjan clasped his hands in front of him and watched as Grantaire turned away and entered the box without so much as a knock. The door didn’t quite close, and Enjan stepped closer as Grantaire spoke inside, presumably to Musichetta. “Please inform the princess that I have found her brother, Prince Enjolras.”

The voice that replied was not Musichetta’s, and Enjan gripped the doorframe and tilted his head as close to the door as he dared. “Tell this man to leave me alone,” a woman said sharply. “I have seen enough Prince Enjolrases to last me a lifetime.”

“You’d better go,” Musichetta sounded anxious.

“Please, your highness.” Grantaire’s voice moved further away and Enjan bit down hard on his lip. “If you’ll just see him –”

“Didn’t you hear my fiancé?” That had to be Pontmercy. “We’ve had enough. She’s been pestered too many times by people like you. If you don’t leave immediately, I will call for the ushers to escort you out of the building.”

“Come away, young man.” Musichetta again. “Come on, let me see you to the door.”

“Wait, please, just a moment of your time –” Grantaire’s voice was suddenly muffled. The boxes had curtains, Enjan remembered, and mouthed a curse. He could hear Grantaire, then Euphrasie speaking, but couldn’t distinguish a single word from the muffled sounds. Then suddenly, they were back.

“I’ve seen it before!” Euphrasie, sounding dangerous. “People who train young men to play the part. I don’t care how much you’ve trained your performing monkey to act like him, look like him, or talk like him. I’ve seen it dozens of times, and I’m sick of it.”

“But this time it is him!” Grantaire insisted. “Please, if your highness would just –”

“Grantaire,” Euphrasie snapped. “I recognise that name. A Frenchman in Russia. Marius has done a lot of research to cut off conmen before they can present their cases to me, and I recognise your name – you’re that smuggler from St. Petersburg who was holding _auditions_ for men who looked like Enjolras!”

Enjan’s heart twisted, cold shock stabbing through him like a knife. He pressed his hand to his mouth and clutched the doorframe as his knees wobbled. Auditions for Enjolras lookalikes…

“Your highness, it’s not what you think –”

“My brother is dead!” Euphrasie’s voice cracked, and Enjan squeezed his eyes shut, the floor seeming to tilt under his feet as everything unravelled around him. “My brother has been dead for ten years, and it was only a childish dream that he could be found and restored to me. How much pain will you insist on inflicting on another for money?”

Everything fell into place, making sickening sense. Enjan dropped his hands to his sides and tried to steady himself against the wall. It had all been for money. Of course it had. How could it have been about anything else?

“I think it’s time you left,” Pontmercy said coldly, and Enjan stepped back from the door just in time for Grantaire to come stumbling out of it, shoved out by a man Enjan didn’t catch more of a glimpse of before the door was slammed in his face.

And there was Grantaire, a little dishevelled, clearly upset, but of course he would be, wouldn’t he? They hadn’t said how much money the reward had been, but Enjan didn’t think it would be small. Grantaire growled in frustration and started to open his mouth to say something, but paused when he saw Enjan’s expression. “En –”

“It was all a lie, wasn’t it?”

“No.” Grantaire’s eyes widened, realising that Enjan had heard everything. “No, that’s not –”

Enjan shook his head. “You _used_ me.” He’d meant to sound cold like Euphrasie, but his voice wobbled and he turned away, unable to look at Grantaire for another second.

“No, it wasn’t like that!” Grantaire grabbed his arm and Enjan yanked it out of his grip and whirled on him. Finally, there was the anger, welling up inside him.

“Yes it was! All you wanted was her money! And I believed you!” He’d been so stupid, so _childish_. His throat burned, and he started to hurry away. He was _not_ going to let Grantaire see him cry.

“Enjolras, wait!” Grantaire ran after him. “Everything’s different now – you really are the prince! Enjolras –”

Enjan spun on his heel and shoved Grantaire in the chest, so hard he tripped and fell to the ground with a painful-sounding thud. “Stop calling me that! I’m not him, and I never was, and you _knew_ it! You knew all along!”

“Listen,” Grantaire pleaded. “Enjolras, what you said about the boy opening the wall –”

“Shut up!” People were staring, and Enjan’s skin crawled under the expensive material of his suit. “Just stop it!” His eyes stung, and he started to walk away again.

“Enjolras!”

“Leave me alone!”

He had to get out. There were too many eyes on him, too many people looking and judging and whispering. He quickened his pace, and by the time he reached the stairs he was running. He didn’t want Grantaire to catch up and try to lie to him again. How had he been so stupid? The night air was chilly, and Enjan kept running once he was out in it. He didn’t have any money on him for a taxi, but he had a rough idea of where Musichetta’s town house was.

He had to go there to return the suit. His old clothes would have to do, and then…well, at least he was in Paris.

 _Together in Paris_.

He swallowed down a sob, his head pounding. “Idiot,” he muttered, slowing to a fast walk. “You stupid, naïve _idiot_.” As if anyone would take a random orphan and bring them to Paris out of the goodness of their hearts. He’d never even thought to ask why Grantaire and the others wanted to reunite Euphrasie with her brother.

Joly and Bossuet must have known, he realised, and sucked in a shaky breath. He’d thought they were his _friends_. They must have been laughing themselves sick behind his back, at how this stupid peasant really thought he could be related to nobility. And all that history they’d drilled into him, god, they must have howled at how eagerly Enjan lapped it up. He’d been so ready to believe he was something special, someone great. 

Halfway back to Musichetta’s house, he started to cry.

The maid let him in, and he went straight to his room to wash his face and pack. He didn’t want to wait for the others to return from the opera. He never wanted to see any of them ever again. Had Musichetta known? Surely she wouldn’t want to deceive Euphrasie of something this important if they were really friends.

She’d sounded so hurt.

Enjan sank slowly to the floor and leaned back against the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest and swallowing furiously. She’d sounded angry as well, but so sad when she’d told Grantaire that her brother was dead. Despite everything, Enjan tried to imagine the young, beautiful woman he’d seen through the binoculars smiling, welcoming him with open arms, calling him Enjolras. Calling him _brother_.

His chest hitched and he buried his face in his knees and started crying again. Now that he was alone, he let it overwhelm him, just for a moment. Strange, that he hadn’t realised how hopeful he’d been until now. He’d wanted it so badly. A real family; someone who could help him fill the awful gap in his childhood. Someone who’d once loved him, and told him that they would one day be in Paris with each other.

Everything swam together as he huddled on the floor and wept. The cold and frustration of his childhood, the kindness of Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet, and the pain of their betrayal. Even his own mind had betrayed him, that dream he’d had on the boat making him feel connected to a family that wasn’t really his. He knew he needed to get up and get going – the ballet wouldn’t last forever, and the walk back here had taken a long time – and eventually he heaved himself to his feet and went to wash his face again, scrubbing at his eyes and cheeks with cold water to try and take away the blotchy redness.

“Together in Paris,” he whispered to himself, gathering up his old clothes and shrugging out of his jacket. He had to believe in that, even if everyone turned against him. Someone had loved him once. Someone had cared. He _would_ find them, no matter how long it took.

A knock on the door snapped him back to reality, and he tore off his waistcoat with far more force than necessary. Only one person would be trying to talk to him now. “Go _away_ , Grantaire!”

When the door opened anyway, he turned ready to shout, but deflated in shock when he saw who it was. “I’m not Grantaire,” said Princess Euphrasie, as calm as anything as she closed the door behind her.

“You’re not.” Enjan dropped the waistcoat and twisted his hands together. “I’m so sorry, I thought…I didn’t mean to say that. To you. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Clearly.” She was even more beautiful up close, and Enjan was very aware of his crumpled clothes (clothes that weren’t even his) and probably still-swollen face. She looked him up and down as she walked towards him, every step slow and measured. Her dress was a deep blue, and her slim throat was encircled by a diamond choker. She looked every inch a princess, and he felt every inch a beggar in her presence. His mind was completely blank, and after a moment, she sighed. “I was hoping you could tell me who _you_ are.”

Well wasn’t that the million-rouble question?

He looked down, and she walked over to the window. “No one. I’m no one,” he said at last, quiet.

“You came all the way from Russia because you thought you were no one?”

He cringed and forced himself to meet her eyes. “I thought…I hoped I might have family in Paris. And I just wanted to know if it was you.” He wanted to curl up and die when she raised an eyebrow.

“I see.”

He lowered his eyes again and muttered, “I’m sorry we wasted your time.”

She was silent for a moment, and he felt her eyes roving over him before she spoke. “I’ve been searching for my brother since the moment I lost him. I’ve put off marrying the man I love for two years because I wanted my brother to be at my wedding. But I’ve had enough. I’m only eighteen years old. I have an entire life to live, and I can’t do it if I’m clinging onto the past.”

Enjan stepped back as she swept past him, shame burning under his skin. She paused at the door and turned back. “What’s your real name, out of interest?”

Enjan opened his mouth, but hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted when she gave him a pointed look. “But the one I was given is Enjan.”

She blinked, lips parting. “Enjan?” Surprised at the similarity to her brother’s name, no doubt. “Well.” She collected herself and gave him a nod. “Good luck, Enjan. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Enjan lurched forward as she opened the door, something pulling him after her as he blurted, “Cosette!”

She looked back at him with wide eyes, and he stepped back again, mind whirring. “What did you call me?”

“Cosette,” he whispered. It sounded so familiar, as though he’d said it a thousand times before even though he had no memory of doing so. “Cosette, because…alouette.” He stared at her, and for a moment she appeared ten years younger, a laughing, singing child. “The lark, because you never stopped singing.” How did he know that?

Euphrasie – Cosette? – stared at him and stepped back into the room, sinking onto the stool in front of the dresser and patting the space next to her. He went over as if dreaming, sitting as close as he dared. “Why Paris?” she asked, looking at him intently, searching his face. “Why do you think you have family in Paris?”

He had to clear his throat before answering “It’s just something I remember. Together in Paris. I don’t even remember a voice or a face to go with it, but it’s…it’s the only clue I have.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his as her hands went to her purse, and she fumbled inside for a moment before pulling out a thin chain and a small ornamented box. “Your music box,” he remembered. Little Cosette had adored it; it had been their secret. 

“My brother gave it to me as a birthday gift,” she explained, her voice trembling. “The necklace is the key.” She handed it to him, and his fingers slid down the chain to find the tiny pendant, shaped like a flower. He knew before he even lifted it to his face that it had writing on it. “Together in Paris,” Cosette whispered, passing him the box.

His heart was pounding, but he took it obediently and found the little groove where the pendant slotted into place, winding it up. “Your song,” he remembered as the lid opened and a pair of dancers rose out of the centre, spinning slowly in place to a melody he knew. “The song you made up for mama’s birthday.”

“Enjolras,” she whispered, and he only just had time to lower the box before she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. “It’s you, it really is you.”

He’d wanted to come to Paris, he remembered. And Cosette had insisted that she would come too, so as a present he’d designed the box and pendant and asked Fauchelevent to help him find someone to make it. She’d been so happy – it had been her favourite present. She’d loved it so much that when the palace was attacked she’d refused to leave without it.

“You saved our lives,” Enjolras gasped. “If you hadn’t gone back for the box, we would’ve been killed.”

She was crying into his shoulder, and he shook as she screwed up a fist and hit him in the back. “Where have you been, Enjolras? What happened to you?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, both of them still clutching at each other’s arms. “I don’t remember, I swear. They told me I’d hit my head, but I don’t know how.”

“You fell,” she told him, and lifted a hand to touch his hair. “We were with Papa – Monsieur Fauchelevent, do you remember him?”

“A little.”

“The train was already leaving when we got to the station, and Papa pulled me up first – you pushed me up as well. And he tried to grab your hand, but the train was too fast and you were only ten. You managed to get his sleeve, but when the train sped up you fell.” She hiccupped. “We lost sight of you immediately, and it was too late. Papa’s always tortured himself over it, he said he should have lifted us up before he got on.”

Enjolras’ mind was spinning, but he managed to hold onto one detail. “Papa?”

“Monsieur Fauchelevent. He’s been like a father to me all these years, Enjolras. I think of him as my father.”

“He took care of us.” It was half a memory, half a guess, and Cosette nodded. “He helped with the box, he found a jeweller for me.”

She laughed, eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and took his face in her hands. “You have to see him. Enjolras, he’ll be so happy. I can’t believe we found you at last!” She hugged him again, and after a second he tucked his face against her shoulder and hugged her back.

“Are you sure I’m him?” he whispered, the last doubts rising to the surface. “How can you be sure?”

“The only ones who ever knew about the music box were our parents and Papa.” She squeezed him, her grip surprisingly strong. “It’s you, big brother. And if you need further proof, look at your right foot.”

“My foot?”

“You cut the sole of your foot on a broken carpet rod, on the stairs outside our apartments. You have a scar there.”

He did. And there was absolutely no way she could have known that unless she really did know him, and she really was his sister. He started to laugh, tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he hugged her tightly.

Enjolras. He’d been comfortable enough being called that on the way here, but now he wrapped the name around himself with the certainty that it was _his_. “Together in Paris,” Cosette sniffed, laughing breathlessly against his neck, and he laughed as well. He’d never felt so lucky.

 

Enjolras hadn’t seen Grantaire for a week. He’d moved into Cosette’s house at her insistence, where she lived with Fauchelevent. Enjolras doubted he would ever call the old man ‘papa’ the way Cosette did, but they were certainly becoming good friends. Between him and Cosette, Enjolras’ memories were coming back in bits and pieces practically by the hour.

Joly and Bossuet had come for tea and explained themselves – they’d been desperate to come to Paris and reunite with Musichetta, but they hadn’t wanted to appear like beggars on her doorstep and rely on her for everything. They’d needed the money.

If things had turned out differently, perhaps Enjolras wouldn’t have been able to forgive them. But it was hard to be bitter when they’d helped him find his family, however inadvertently. “Besides,” Joly said, “by the time we were in Germany, we were both convinced you really were Enjolras. Your memory loss was too convenient, and the way you picked everything up – especially French! I mean, I would have been shocked if you’d been turned away.”

Everyone had been unfailingly kind, but Enjolras still felt adrift whenever he wasn’t with Cosette or Fauchelevent. There was a fear he couldn’t quite banish that someone would look at him and frown, and suddenly declare he was a fraud.

Cosette insisted on throwing a party to celebrate his return, and Enjolras couldn’t find it in him to deny her. It had always been that way, he knew now. Cosette had always been vivacious and ready to make friends with everyone, and he always indulged her to see her happy. That was something he and her fiancé had in common, it seemed.

Marius Pontmercy was an awkward young man on his own, a student of law at one of the universities in Paris, but in Cosette’s presence he bloomed. Two years of waiting to marry her, and he was clearly no less besotted, which endeared him to Enjolras. He had been worried that Marius would treat him only as an obstacle finally defeated, but he had been as kind and welcoming as Cosette and everyone else.

The party was tonight, a grand celebration that had apparently warranted the fitting of a new suit. He’d gone from having one shirt to his name to an entire wardrobe of clothes he was sure he would never have time to wear. He was heading up the stairs to Cosette’s study when someone else began to come down. Enjolras froze, and Grantaire looked up and stopped too, caught in the act.

Grantaire could have come to see him and at least apologise, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even given Joly and Bossuet a message to pass on, and Enjolras drew himself up tall and fixed him with a cold look. “Come to collect your reward money, have you?” He couldn’t think of another reason why Grantaire would have come out of Cosette’s study.

Grantaire shrugged and held up his hands. “My business here is done.” He needed a shave, Enjolras noted, and he was wearing the shabby clothes he’d worn on their journey.

Not that Enjolras cared. “I hope you got what you came for,” he said.

“You too. Your highness,” Grantaire added, and dipped into a shallow bow. He was gone before Enjolras could say another word, struck silent by the gesture. It hadn’t been mocking or sarcastic in the slightest. Every other time Grantaire had addressed him like that, it had been with an edge of amusement, but now…

Enjolras shook his head, scowling at himself, and kept going up. What should he care how Grantaire addressed him? It wasn’t going to happen again any time soon.

The party began that evening. Enjolras had intended to stick as close to Cosette as possible, but that was soon proved a terrible idea. As hostess, Cosette had to meet every single arrival, and Enjolras could only manage a few introductions before he had to retreat to a side room, pulling anxiously at the tight neck of his collar.

He didn’t belong here. Prince or not, Enjan or Enjolras, he had no place at a party like this. Perhaps if he’d escaped Russia at the same time as Cosette, things would be different, but when he looked around all he could see was the decadence and waste. Paris was a paradise compared to St. Petersburg, true, but even Paris had its problems. There were still people struggling here; there were still people who needed help and received none.

Everyone at this party was so _rich_. Enjolras couldn’t look them in the eye, feeling as though he was wearing his old rags. It was almost the way he’d felt at the orphanage, excluded and judged, someone to be teased and bullied. It wasn’t like this when he was just with Cosette or Fauchelevent, and it hadn’t been like that when he’d been travelling with Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire.

He hadn’t belonged back at the orphanage, and he didn’t fit in here. Where did that leave him? What was he going to do with his life?

“Enjolras?”

He jumped, and sighed when he saw it was Cosette. She closed the door carefully behind her, frowning. “Are you alright?”

“I’m…” I’m fine balanced on his lips for a moment, but he shook his head. “It’s a lot to take in. I feel like they’re all staring at me.”

“That’s probably because a lot of them are.” Cosette came over and took his hand. “They don’t mean anything by it. They’re curious.”

“I don’t like them staring at me like an animal in a zoo.”

“I know. Musichetta’s arrived now though – I’m sure she could distract you. Joly and Bossuet are with her,” she added, smiling.

“Is…”

Cosette shook her head. “Grantaire declined to join them.”

“Oh.” Not that he cared, Enjolras reminded himself, and frowned. “No, I’m sure he’s off spending his reward money as fast as he can.”

“Reward money?”

“Ten million roubles, wasn’t it? A third of that is hardly a small sum. He’s probably having a wonderful time.” He looked down, hoping Cosette wouldn’t comment on how bitter he sounded.

She only sighed, and squeezed his hand. “Enjolras.” He looked at her and she shook her head again. “He didn’t take the money.”

For a long moment, his mind was completely blank. “He didn’t? Why?”

“He said he had a change of heart.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I need to keep greeting people. Join us if you feel ready, big brother.”

“I’ll come now,” he said impulsively. He needed to speak to Joly and Bossuet about this.

The only news they had, however, made his heart sink. Grantaire had already bade them farewell, heading for the train station to leave the city. He was heading south, Bossuet said. Perhaps to Spain, or maybe Italy. Unnerved by the continuous feeling of eyes on him wherever he turned, Enjolras slipped out again, this time to the gardens. They were cool after the heat of the ballroom, and the dark settled around him, promising solitude and quiet that he felt sorely in need of.

Grantaire was leaving Paris. By now he was probably already gone, speeding away from Enjolras forever. They might never see each other again. It had been easy to hate him, but knowing that he hadn’t taken the money made it so much more complicated. Enjolras just wanted to lie down and sleep, exhausted.

The gardens looked different at night. Much bigger, for one thing. He frowned as he reached the halfway point of a path he was sure should have ended by now. When he turned to look behind him, his breath caught in his throat. He was certain there hadn’t been a hedge there a few seconds ago, but there it was, seven feet high and unmoving. There wasn’t even a breeze.

“ _Enjolras_ …”

He turned, but there was no one there. “Hello?” he called, heart beginning to beat faster.

Nothing. And the way behind him was blocked, so he had to walk forward. There was nothing to be afraid of – it was only a garden. Larger than he remembered, true, but still only a garden. It was just leaves and branches and dirt. 

“ _Enjolras_ …”

He turned around, and spun back a second later as something brushed the back of his leg. A little gasp escaped his throat – a hedge was there where there had been none a moment earlier. It had appeared almost in the blink of an eye, with only a falling leaf to indicate that it might have just moved.

“This isn’t funny!” he shouted. Anger was always better than fear, and far more useful.

“ _Enjolras_ ,” the whisper called again, low and creaking, and Enjolras leapt a foot into the air as branches began to stretch out from the hedge, growing towards him.

Instinct carried him along the path at a run, and he yelped as the hedge rushed after him, closing up the path seconds behind him. Ahead of him the plants either side of the path began to grow as well, blocking off any chance of escape. He was a rat in a maze, with no choice but to run. He skidded around a corner and cried out as something tripped him and he went sprawling…onto cobblestones? He looked up and pulled himself to his feet, backing away from the overgrown mess that had once been Cosette’s garden. It had forced him onto one of the bridges over the Seine, the river and the banks beyond shrouded in thick fog. He could see the haze of lights, but nothing distinct. 

“ _Enjolras_.” A shape moved in the fog, and in the middle of the bridge a tall, dark figure seemed to manifest from nothing, as if scraps of darkness were pulling themselves together to form the shape of a tall, thin man.

Enjolras felt his eyes before he saw them, a piercing gaze so strong it made him take a step back, his blood freezing in his veins. He tried to speak, but all he could do was swallow, fear holding him in a vice. “Enjolras Golovin.” The figure stepped forward out of the fog slowly, and Enjolras shivered. The sudden movement broke whatever spell he was under, and he looked behind him for a way of escape.

The greenery completely blocked off the road behind him. He could try climbing the railing and leaping to the road, but if he missed, he would fall into the river. If he’d ever known how to swim as a child, the lessons were long-forgotten.

“Look at me.”

Enjolras cried out as an invisible force grabbed his head and turned it to face the man on the bridge. He was released a moment later, and renewed fear coursed through him. “Who are you?”

“You don’t remember?” The man kept walking forward, his eyes shining out from under a heavy brow. “No matter. First you, then your dear sister, and then I can rest at last.”

“Why –”

“Golovin.” The man spat the name, and Enjolras staggered as a memory burst through his mind.

“The curse.”

“The Romanov Curse,” the man agreed. The darkness was thicker around him, like a ragged halo of shadows. It had been the same when he’d appeared in the palace, Enjolras remembered. The sorcerer who had bewitched the imperial family until his assassination.

“Rasputin,” he whispered, and the man inclined his head.

“It is good that you remember, though it will not be for long.” He stretched out his hand, which held a large reliquary of some kind, glowing with unearthly green light. Enjolras didn’t even have time to shout before something slammed into him, throwing him sideways right across the bridge and into the railing.

“I’m not a Romanov,” he protested, grabbing the railing and pulling himself up. “I wasn’t even a Golovin until last week!”

“You have always been a Golovin,” Rasputin whispered, eyes burning. “Your father carried Romanov blood, and so do you. It ends with you and your sister.”

“Not Cosette.” He needed a weapon, a rock or a stick, anything. “Please, you got what you wanted – the Romanovs are dead, the empire is over.”

“All those of Romanov blood will die,” Rasputin intoned. “That is the nature of a curse. I should thank you.” The hand holding the reliquary moved again and Enjolras gasped as the bridge cracked, the ground under his feet tilting as a huge chunk of the bridge began to break away. “If not for you, I might not have found your sister. Now I will kill you both.”

“Don’t!” Enjolras pushed off from the railing and ran, trying to get to the horizontal part of the bridge, but it was too late. His feet slipped on the tilting cobblestones and he screamed as he fell, only saved by the railings now under him. The chunk of bridge dangled, held up only by bending metal struts. Rasputin stood at the top, eyes fixed on Enjolras. 

“First you,” he said, “and then your sister.”

“Leave her alone!” There were cracks in the cobbles as the chunk of bridge began to fall apart. Enjolras jumped for one and started to climb, desperation lending him strength. “We can’t do anything to you, leave us alone!”

“All those of Romanov blood will fall to the curse.” Rasputin shook his head.

“What do you want?” Enjolras hauled himself up. Just a few feet from the edge, if he could grab one of the struts he might make it. “If there’s anything we can give you, please…”

“There is nothing you can do for me.” Rasputin flung his arms wide and Enjolras cried out in revulsion as the cloaking darkness flew away, showing what Rasputin really was. A decaying corpse crawling with maggots, little wisps of green-black darkness seeping from the holes they’d made in the grey flesh. Enjolras clutched the bridge and tore his gaze away, sucking in a deep breath before reaching up for the next handhold. One more boost and he would be able to grab the edge of the bridge.

A cold hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked him up with inhuman strength just as the chunk of bridge below him fell away and crashed into the water below. Enjolras struggled helplessly as Rasputin crouched to hold him at eye level. This close, he could see how gaunt his face was, how the skin was pulled tight and thin over the bone. Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and scrambled to find a handhold, gagging as a beard crawling with bugs brushed his face.

“First you, then your sister,” Rasputin whispered, breath rattling. “No one is coming to save you now.”

“Enjolras!”

Enjolras found a handhold just in time. Rasputin dropped him, whacked aside by some sort of metal bar, and Enjolras barely held onto the edge of the bridge, legs dangling with nothing to catch on. “Hold on!” his rescuer shouted, and Enjolras let out a little sound of scared relief. He didn’t know why Grantaire was here, but he certainly wasn’t complaining.

He was holding onto a layer of some sort of concrete under the cobblestones, and just as his grip began to fail, Grantaire was there, hauling him up by the shoulders. “Are you alright?” he gasped.

Enjolras saw the shape behind him and shouted, “Move!”

Grantaire rolled aside, and Rasputin’s kick went wide. “Get the reliquary!” Enjolras yelled, dragging himself up onto the bridge. “Grantaire – ah!” His head snapped back from the force of Rasputin’s kick, and for a terrifying second he lost his grip and slid backwards, almost tumbling over the edge. Blinded by tears, nose throbbing, he pulled himself up again, seeing a blurry Rasputin advancing on Grantaire ahead of him. With a desperate wriggle forward, he managed to grab Rasputin’s ankle. “Grantaire!”

Rasputin had turned to look down at him, and while he was distracted Grantaire lunged. Enjolras’ legs were still dangling freely, but his grip on Rasputin’s foot made the sorcerer trip backwards over him, and then over the edge. His hands windmilled, and Grantaire was there, one hand on the reliquary and the other stretched down towards Enjolras, ready to duck and grab him if needed.

The cord binding the reliquary to Rasputin’s wrist snapped, and Enjolras’ whole body shuddered as he fell, silent, to the river below. Grantaire grabbed his shoulders, dragging him completely onto the bridge. “Smash it,” Enjolras croaked. “Quickly!”

“Are you alright?” Grantaire was panting, his free hand fluttering over Enjolras’ chest. “Enjolras…” There were shadows swirling behind him, a shape forming too quickly for them to fight, and Enjolras grabbed for the reliquary just as a huge hand burst from the dark and latched around the back of Grantaire’s neck. Rasputin hurled him half the length of the bridge, and Enjolras’ heart lurched as Grantaire slammed into the ground and rolled twice before lying still.

“Grantaire!”

“You will die!” Rasputin rasped. He was falling apart, bits of flesh dropping from his bones, his rotting robe still wet from the river. Enjolras moved on pure instinct, lifting the reliquary up and slamming it into the cobblestones. Rasputin fell to his knees and _shrieked_ , crawling forward as Enjolras scrambled back. The light in the reliquary had turned red, shining through the cracked glass like blood. “Give it to me!” Rasputin howled.

Enjolras brought the reliquary down again, and Rasputin recoiled as red light burst forth, screaming as the rays hit him. Enjolras smashed it down a third time, and was thrown backwards as it exploded, a pillar of green light shooting into the sky. It flew up and streaked down again, burning through Rasputin’s putrid body in an instant. Enjolras watched in horror as his robe disintegrated and his flesh melted away. His skeleton shuddered on the stones before the last of the green light faded and it crumbled to dust, the breeze blowing it into the river.

Everything was silent, Enjolras’ heavy breathing suddenly the loudest thing in the world. “Grantaire,” he whispered, turning around and stumbling to his feet. “Grantaire!”  Grantaire was unmoving, and Enjolras ignored the pain in his knees as he crashed down next to him. “Don’t be dead,” Enjolras begged, hands shaking too much to tell if he was breathing. “Please, Grantaire, don’t be dead.”

Grantaire didn’t respond, and Enjolras’ heart constricted with fear. A sudden sound made him jump, and he gasped when he realised it was Grantaire groaning, his face contorting as he winced in pain. “Enj’lr’s?”

“You’re alive!” Enjolras pulled him up into a hug, squeezing too tight and letting go when Grantaire cried out in pain. “Sorry! Sorry, oh…are you alright, where are you hurt?”

“Everywhere.” Grantaire coughed and leaned his weight on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Fuck. Is it over? Is he gone?”

Enjolras nodded. “He’s gone.”

“How did you know smashing that thing would kill him?”

“I guessed,” Enjolras admitted, skating his hand down Grantaire’s back. “We should go to a hospital.”

Grantaire groaned again. “In a minute. I’m barely conscious.”

Enjolras made a weary sound of agreement and leaned his head against Grantaire’s, shifting so he was sitting rather than kneeling. For a minute they just stayed like that, getting their breath back, but finally Enjolras had to speak. “You came back. And you didn’t take the money.”

Grantaire’s head moved against his – a nod. “I couldn’t leave.”

“Why?”

“I wanted…” Grantaire pulled away, leaning back so they could look at each other properly. He looked wretched, and he looked down after only a second. “I wanted to apologise. And…”

“Yes?” Enjolras’ hand was still on Grantaire’s back, and he pressed gently, trying to encourage him.

“I wanted to tell you,” Grantaire said quietly, and Enjolras lifted his other hand to Grantaire’s cheek, tilting it up as he leaned in, slow enough that Grantaire could pull away if he wanted. He didn’t. Enjolras heard Grantaire suck in a breath through his nose as their lips met, fitting together perfectly. His hand came to rest on Enjolras’ waist, solid and sure, and Enjolras pressed forward as warmth bloomed in his chest.

“I wanted to tell you too,” he whispered when they parted, and Grantaire leaned their foreheads together and laughed, sounding a little broken.

“I was such a coward. I should’ve come to you sooner, but I was too scared. I’m so sorry, Enjolras. For everything.” 

“You helped me find my family,” Enjolras told him, and leaned in for another kiss. “Just stay,” he mumbled against Grantaire’s lips. “That’s all I want.”

Grantaire opened his mouth with a sigh, and Enjolras made a small sound at the warmth of it, and at the soft press of Grantaire’s tongue against his. “Anything,” Grantaire breathed, and Enjolras stopped kissing him in order to hug him.

Everything felt right now. The unsettled feeling that had been plaguing him all week was gone, like an uneven surface levelling out under his feet. He didn’t have to struggle to stay upright anymore. He didn’t have to fit into the roles people were now expecting him to fill. He didn’t have to belong in high Parisian society if he didn’t want to. He didn’t have to belong anywhere but with Grantaire.


	2. Epilogue

Cosette’s wedding was a magnificent affair, and Enjolras watched as Fauchelevent walked her down the aisle with a strange swelling feeling in his chest. Grantaire was next to him in the front pew, Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly just along from them. Enjolras had expected Cosette’s side of the church to be a lot emptier than Marius’, since most of their family was dead, but while Marius’ family lived, it seemed that there weren’t actually that many of them. And by contrast, Cosette had more than enough friends to fill the space.

His little sister was widely adored.

Enjolras clenched the hand closest to Grantaire as Marius and Cosette faced each other, both of them radiant with happiness. The priest nodded for the congregation to be seated, and Enjolras pressed his thigh to Grantaire’s. They couldn’t hold hands in public, so that would have to be enough. As happy as he was for Cosette, there was still a small part of him that was both enraged and in mourning that he would never be able to do this himself.

By the time they had finished their vows, that part was buried so far under that swelling feeling in his chest that it might as well not have existed at all. Cosette’s eyes sparkled as Marius lifted her veil, and Enjolras led the applause when they kissed, too happy for her to begrudge any aspect of the ceremony.

She and Marius went separately to the party, but she found him at her house, where the celebration was being held. Her embrace was so strong he was almost lifted off the ground, and they both laughed when she let him go. “I can barely believe you’re here,” she whispered, going up on tiptoe to kiss his cheeks. “I’m so happy, Enjolras.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he told her, pulling her into another hug, hoping she wouldn’t comment on how choked he sounded. He would never have believed a month ago that he would be attending his sister’s wedding. A month ago he wouldn’t have believed he _had_ a sister. It was very overwhelming, and he stuck close to Grantaire and the others as the party got going.

Cosette’s house was opulent enough on its own, but with all of these fancily-dressed people swanning around with their trilling laughter and glittering jewels it was like being inside a giant, gilded birdcage.

“Do you feel as uncomfortable as I do?” Enjolras whispered to Grantaire, who snorted.

“Yeah, but probably not for the same reasons.”

“What’re your reasons?” Enjolras turned to face him properly, avoiding a hopeful look from a powdery-faced man, clearly hoping to engage him in conversation.

Grantaire’s mouth twisted. “I feel like I should either be serving these people, or stealing from them.”

Enjolras grinned, moving closer. “What would you steal first?”

Grantaire’s grimace became a smile, and for the rest of the reception he, Joly, and Bossuet kept Enjolras entertained with stories about what they’d done in Russia, and what they’d do if they were still in the same position here.

Cosette and Marius left for their honeymoon the following morning, and Enjolras tried to quell the anxious fluttering in his stomach that insisted he make Cosette stay somehow. There was still apparently some part of him that was convinced she would disappear forever if he let her out of his sight. At least Fauchelevent was staying behind, and Grantaire wasn’t going anywhere.

Grantaire was the one who found them an apartment to rent, big enough to be comfortable for both of them, and small enough not to put either of them on edge, Enjolras in particular. He didn’t want to be a prince or a pauper – somewhere in the middle would be good enough for him. It was strange, living with only one person, and having that person be Grantaire was even stranger, but full of unexpected delights as well.

Enjolras had never been allowed to look at someone the way Grantaire invited him to do so. He’d never had permission to touch, to kiss, to press closer and demand more. He’d spent years being careful, keeping his eyes averted and his tongue bitten, and having free reign with someone who wanted him just as much was intoxicating.

On their first night alone, Enjolras pulled Grantaire to the bed and fell on top of him, rocking against him until they were both gasping. He was greedy for this, had been waiting for what felt like years, though it had only been a week and a half. “We should,” he breathed, pulling at Grantaire’s waistcoat, pushing one of the shoulders off. “Grantaire, come on –”

“Eager,” Grantaire teased, sitting up and waiting for Enjolras to shift his legs so he was straddling him, still pressed tight together. Enjolras hummed agreement and kissed his ear, yanking the waistcoat off.

“Aren’t you?”

“More than you know.” Grantaire nudged Enjolras’ chin back and fixed his mouth to his throat. The heat and sting made Enjolras gasp, fingers spasming for a moment in the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt.

“How much?” he managed to ask.

“You want me to embarrass myself?”

“I want you to tell me.” Enjolras slid a hand up Grantaire’s back, over his collar and into his hair, pressing his fingers together through the curls to feel how they filled the gaps. “This is all new to me, remember?”

“To me, as well.”

“Liar.” Enjolras couldn’t say how he knew, but it made him laugh and lean back to look into Grantaire’s eyes. “You’ve done this before.”

“What gives it away?” Grantaire’s smile was crooked, a little abashed. Enjolras pressed his thumb to the corner of it, marvelling at the fact that he could, that such an intimate touch was allowed.

“You’re too good not to have practiced.”

Grantaire laughed. “By that logic, you must have fucked half of Russia.” He laughed harder at Enjolras’ outraged expression, and laughed still as Enjolras pulled open the top few buttons of his shirt and yanked the garment up over his head. Exposed, Grantaire fell quiet, though a small smile remained as Enjolras gazed down at him, rapt.

“I’ve never fucked anyone before,” he muttered, spreading his hands over Grantaire’s sides and sliding them up over the bulge of his belly, protruding due to the angle he was sat at, up to the dark hair on his chest and finally spreading over his broad shoulders. Enjolras’ hips rocked forwards a fraction, and he was so concentrated on memorising the sight of Grantaire’s bare chest that it took him a moment to notice that Grantaire’s cheeks had darkened. “Are you blushing?” he grinned, and laughed when Grantaire huffed and caught his wrists in his hands, arching up to kiss him quiet. “You’re blushing,” Enjolras mumbled, undeterred, smiling too wide to be kissed properly.

Grantaire snorted. “Of course I am, with you looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Enjolras leaned back and dragged his eyes down Grantaire’s body, from the swollen red of his lips to the trail of hair that led below his waistline, and the bulges in both their trousers. Grantaire shivered and let go of Enjolras’ wrists to wrap his arms around him, holding him too close to keep looking.

“And here I thought you might be shy,” Grantaire muttered into his shoulder. Enjolras turned a kiss into his hair.

“I don’t bother being shy about the things I want.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“I hope not. I’ve only just started living with you.”

Grantaire let out a bark of laughter. The silence afterwards spoke volumes of his nervousness, and Enjolras drew back again to look at him just as he said, “Are we having sex then? Only no one’s ever looked at me to do that before.”

“So you confess to your experience,” Enjolras grinned, then softened at Grantaire’s anxious smile and leaned in to kiss him. He’d thought he’d be shyer too, in truth, but he could feel how much Grantaire wanted him, and he’d wanted this for what felt like a very long time. Ever since the bridge, he’d thought of this. The few kisses they’d been able to share since then had been teases for more, for the possibility of what they were doing now.

“I don’t feel experienced at all,” Grantaire admitted, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and worrying at it. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“How could you?” Enjolras kissed the corner of his eye. “I didn’t think you could make mistakes in sex.”

Grantaire laughed, startled. “Wow, that _does_ show your inexperience.”

“Be quiet.” Enjolras pushed at his shoulder, hoping he wasn’t the one blushing now. “I just thought…well, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“It can hurt if it’s not done properly,” Grantaire said, wrinkling his nose.

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t.”

“It can be…awkward.”

“It won’t be.” Enjolras started unbuttoning his own shirt, gratified at the way Grantaire’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the growing V of skin he was revealing.

“It…what if I come too fast?”

Enjolras grinned and tilted Grantaire’s chin up. It took a second for his eyes to flick up to meet Enjolras’. “I’d be flattered.”

“Fuck.” Grantaire’s thighs clenched between Enjolras’ legs, and Enjolras kissed him hungrily, finally slipping his shirt off. Grantaire’s hands brushed his arms, and when Enjolras rocked forward he actually moaned and held him properly, one arm looped around Enjolras’ waist while his other hand mapped out Enjolras’ chest, as smooth as Grantaire’s was hairy.

Enjolras’ head spun, overloaded with trying to take in so many new sensations at once. He couldn’t think beyond the desire for _more_ , though he was already breathing contented, greedy little noises whenever their chests and stomachs touched, whenever Grantaire’s hand tightened in his hair, volume growing when Grantaire held him tight and thrust up against him.

They didn’t have anything to allow penetration – Grantaire promised he would go and get some oil first thing the next day – but it was more than enough to lie pressed together, Enjolras on top of Grantaire again with only their hands and what saliva they could muster to help them along. Enjolras wouldn’t have cared if they’d just humped each other to completion dry – it already felt so good, so much better than anything he’d managed on his own. The heat of Grantaire’s body was a furnace, the sounds he made addictive. Enjolras knew he’d had previous partners, and it was good to hear how affected Grantaire was by _him_ , not by anyone else. His voice gave out completely when he came, mouth open and eyes rolled back.

The sudden warmth and wetness between them, and the knowledge that _he’d_ done that to Grantaire made Enjolras groan, and he came only a few thrusts later.

“And here I thought you’d be innocent,” Grantaire panted as Enjolras rolled off, and he laughed when he saw Enjolras’ disgusted expression at the mess they’d made.

It was enough, for a couple of weeks, simply to live with Grantaire and be men of leisure. They went out to eat and drink, visited Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet, let themselves be shown around more of Paris and came back every night to their own slice of privacy to fall into bed and each other’s arms. For a while, it was enough, but as the summer began to heat up, Enjolras found himself more often with Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet, the four of them trying to figure out what to do.

For Grantaire, for once, it was simple. “I’m in a city of artists and writers and poets,” he beamed, lifting his glass. “And they all drink as much as I do! Give me till the end of the summer, and I’ll be in with a few of them at least, and we’ll be going to parties with the greats!”

Bossuet, too, thought he might attempt breaking into the world of art, but Joly had quite different goals – “I’m going to be a doctor,” he said firmly. “I don’t care if they think I’m a backwards Russian, I’m going to learn medicine or die trying.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” Grantaire patted his arm.

Enjolras, unfortunately, was as aimless as Bossuet. “Be an artist like me then,” Bossuet grinned. “Some paint and a few canvases – how hard can it be?”

“Have you seen how much paint costs here?” Grantaire snorted, but frowned when Enjolras shook his head.

“I couldn’t. I wouldn’t know what to paint, for a start – I’d be terrible. And don’t you dare suggest writing. I’m not creative at all.”

“Now that’s not true.” Grantaire nudged him. “You designed Cosette’s music box, didn’t you? That’s creative.”

“That’s engineering with a pretty topcoat.” Enjolras rolled his eyes. “It’s not the same.”

“It is. I bet you could do anything you put your mind to, even if a paintbrush _was_ involved.”

Paintbrushes soon became a familiar sight in their lives. Grantaire began to paint with all the enthusiasm of the untrained with money to burn, and before the month was out they had to move to a larger apartment with room for all his canvases. At his encouragement, Enjolras tried sketching, and painting when Grantaire stood beside him, holding his fingers around the brush and doing most of the work for him.

In the end, they got more paint on each other than the canvas, which took days to wash off and stained the floorboards so badly they had to put down a rug to hide it from the landlady.

When Cosette and Marius returned from their honeymoon, suntanned and exhausted, he visited them a few times. It was a small respite from the feeling that he was lacking something integral – Marius was academic, quite content to admit that he knew nothing of art, particularly when it was modern. Cosette, on the other hand, insisted that everyone had a little artistic ability, even if it was turned to something not considered art.

“I arrange things,” she told Enjolras, walking arm-in-arm with him through the garden. He refused to walk out of sight of the house and wouldn’t go into it after dusk, but in the bright sunshine with all the shrubs and flowerbeds neatly trimmed and thoroughly unenchanted it felt safe enough. “Not everyone can organise a good party, you know. Not everyone can decorate a room or understand how to dress fashionably. I can draw, a little, but it’s not my passion. I like the world around me to look as beautiful as it can, and my talents lie in making it.”

“I can’t do that though,” Enjolras sighed. “I can’t seem to do anything like that.”

“That just means you haven’t discovered it yet.” She squeezed his arm. “Do you think I would have been able to indulge my artistic whims if I wasn’t in the position I am? I’m very lucky, Enjolras. And now so are you – you have the time and resources to try out anything that takes your fancy.”

“It shouldn’t be that way,” he argued, startling both of them with his vehemence. “It isn’t right that only the rich are allowed to indulge themselves while everyone else breaks their backs to prop them up. Art is supposed to represent the people, but the only people who have the time to develop talent enough to create it are those with money. It’s unfair.”

“You sound very Communist.” Cosette gave him a small, slightly worried smile, and Enjolras sighed again and let the subject drop. There were other ways to help people, Cosette insisted, but as far as Enjolras could see all these ways were short-term at best, and self-congratulatory and exploitative at worst.

Frustrated, and irritated at himself for being frustrated, Enjolras turned to reading to fill his time instead, and was startled when a new friend of Grantaire’s cried out at the sight of him when they met for perhaps the third time. Jehan was a writer, and when he saw that Enjolras was reading a book about the merits of Greek poetry he fell into the chair next to him and plucked it right out of Enjolras’ hands to look at it.

He’d been waiting for Grantaire outside one of their favourite cafés, having saved a table with only two chairs, but Grantaire only laughed and dragged another over to make three. “Is Enjolras reading something good, Jehan?” 

“That depends on his opinion of it.” Jehan handed the book back and gave Enjolras an expectant look that left him floundering. 

“I…I’m not sure I have an opinion yet.”

“That means your opinion of it is not favourable,” Jehan said knowingly.

“It’s not that I don’t like it.” Enjolras glanced at Grantaire, out of his depth. “Not exactly. I just don’t think I understand it. To tell the truth…” He hesitated, but Jehan nodded for him to continue, and in the face of such an open face, Enjolras couldn’t refuse. Jehan dressed terribly, but on both previous occasions they’d met he hadn’t ignored him the way some of Grantaire’s acquaintances did, but actively tried to engage him, and hadn’t even laughed when Enjolras’ French faltered.

“To tell the truth, I don’t know whether I understand any art,” he admitted. “It feels like I’m blaspheming in church to say so,” he added, gesturing dryly to their surroundings. This café was notorious for attracting bohemian artists, particularly Americans. “But I don’t think my mind has any ability for grasping it. God knows I’ve tried, but it never sinks in. I can enjoy a story, but I couldn’t tell you whether the writing was any good. I don’t understand what’s so moving about canvases covered in paint with no real picture to see in it. Most of the music I like, but I don’t really know why, other than that it’s good to dance to. Grantaire’s taken to all this like a duck to water, but I still feel like a Russian peasant.”

He frowned down at his hands on the table, uncomfortably aware that he’d never aired these particular grievances to Grantaire before. In fairness, Grantaire hadn’t asked. He’d been encouraging, but all with a sort of benign assumption that Enjolras just hadn’t found the right medium yet. One music box crafted when he was a boy, and in Grantaire’s eyes he was as much an artist as Michelangelo. It was flattering, certainly, but it wasn’t him.

Jehan took his hand in both of his own and squeezed it. “What moves you then,” he asked softly, “if not paintings and books?”

“People.” Enjolras looked around. It was early evening, the sun still hot, the street still crowded. Every café and bar was filled to bursting, spilling patrons onto the street. A man on the corner was playing the accordion, and the table of young women next to them kept exploding with shrieks of laughter. “I care more about their condition of living than their artistic souls. We’re all the lucky ones – we can afford the time and leisure to experiment with these new styles and fashions, but what about the people who can’t? For me to try and be good at something I have no talent for isn’t only a waste of time – it’s dishonest, and it’s a disgrace to the people I could be doing something for.

“I know there’s a place for art in the world.” Here he looked at Grantaire, and reached for him with his free hand. “And people who are driven to create it, and that’s good – even if it doesn’t affect me, I can see the way it affects others and lifts them up, spurring them on, and that’s good, that’s wonderful, but it’s still…not enough. The world is bigger than that, and I can’t help feeling that I’m living wastefully when I should be doing something to help those less fortunate. And not simply by giving them money – that’s only a temporary fix. This society is broken. Everyone I see seems to either pretend the world beyond their doors doesn’t exist, or just accepts it as a necessary and unchangeable fact of the world.”

“Which is a disgrace,” Jehan breathed, and squeezed Enjolras’ hand with a smile before releasing it. “I have a friend you _need_ to meet. He came to Paris the year before me to study medicine, and now studies the mind instead. He’s always talking about the way people think and the way they create unequal societies – his name is Combeferre. You remind me of him. He doesn’t like to analyse art either, beyond deciding what he likes and doesn’t like. Ah, I misspoke – he does love books, and can talk for hours about them, but when it comes to Grantaire’s type of art, he says it’s better to leave it to those who care more than he.”

That night, Grantaire led Enjolras in a slow waltz around their apartment, lost in thought. Enjolras waited, patient – Grantaire would come back to him once he’d figured out what he wanted to say. Sure enough, five songs later, Grantaire pressed his face into Enjolras’ neck and sighed. “Have I been terrible?”

Enjolras smiled. “No. You’ve been happy, and watching you has been a gift in itself.”

“But?”

“But I’m not an artist. I don’t have the soul for it, or the temperament.” He hesitated. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think I was boring.”

“You could never bore me.” Grantaire pulled back just enough to kiss him, the honesty in it enough to make Enjolras relax. “I didn’t fall in love with you for your artistic soul.”

“What for then?” Enjolras asked, both curious and worried.

Grantaire smoothed the lines in his forehead out with two knuckles and kept them swaying to the music, slow strings and gentle piano. “Your brave soul, I think. Your determination, your wit, the way you pretended you were perfectly at home when you were completely out of your depth.” He kissed the corner of Enjolras’ mouth. “Your kindness. Your wide eyes.” He smiled. “Your belief.”

“My belief?”

“In us, in others, in what you were doing, in yourself. You’re so fierce. You’re like a general from an army – you inspire people’s devotion. I’d follow you anywhere.”

“Even away from Paris?” Grantaire adored it here, but there was no hesitation in his nod.

“Anywhere. Even back to Russia,” he added, grimacing, and Enjolras laughed.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“Thank goodness.”

Combeferre was everything Jehan had promised and more. A serious, bespectacled young man, by the second hour of their meeting Grantaire had left them to go drinking with some people he knew, and Enjolras felt like he’d known Combeferre for years. They didn’t stop talking until the café closed up, and from there it was easy enough to find a bench, buy a bottle of wine, and continue as though they’d never been interrupted.

Enjolras had never met anyone whose frustrations and opinions matched so closely with his own. Combeferre was so enthusiastic about all the changes humanity would make over the next few years, so excited about the possibility of all they could achieve if differences were put aside in favour of lifting each other up instead of pushing each other down, and his passion was infectious. So much so that they only realised what time it was when a person in the building opposite flung open a window and shouted at them to shut up because it was almost three in the morning.

Next time, Combeferre told him as they parted, he would introduce Enjolras to a friend of his, a law student called Courfeyrac. Together, he assured Enjolras, they would be unstoppable.

“He didn’t even care that I was technically nobility,” Enjolras told Grantaire when he finally got home. Grantaire habitually worked into the early hours unless dragged to bed, so he was still awake and ready to drag Enjolras to bed for keeping him waiting.

“You told him?”

“It just came up.”

High on the giddy feeling of making a friend of his own, Enjolras rode him, gasping as Grantaire gripped his hips and fucked up into him. “Fuck, fuck, Grantaire –”

“Did you tell him about us?”

“He guessed.” Enjolras laughed, throwing his head back as the sound became a moan. “I think he likes men too, though he didn’t say as much.”

“Well don’t go running off with him – you’ll break my heart.”

“I’d never.” Enjolras leaned down to kiss him, thighs aching with the strain of continuing to thrust. “You’re all mine, I’m keeping you for myself.”

“Greedy.” They’d figured out that Grantaire liked his possessive streak, and Grantaire pressed his fingers harder into Enjolras’ hips to still his movement, keeping him in place while Grantaire bucked beneath him. “You like keeping me in bed, hm? Am I just a servant to you, your highness?” Heat flared in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach as Grantaire punctuated his words with a particularly well-aimed thrust, and Enjolras’ face must have done _something_ , because Grantaire laughed breathlessly. “You like that?”

“What?” Enjolras gasped, twitching against Grantaire’s restraining hands.

“Being spoken to so, _your highness_.”

That heat again, good enough to make Enjolras throw his head back even as he groaned. “No…”

“Liar!”

It was a lie, Enjolras discovered as Grantaire rolled them so he was on top, whispering filth into Enjolras’ ear as he fucked him into the mattress. Every time Grantaire addressed him as nobility, Enjolras grew wilder, until he came with a hoarse shout.

“You never tell anybody,” he muttered, curled up in Grantaire’s arms half an hour later. “You breathe so much as a word to a single soul, and I’ll go straight back to Russia.”

“Heaven forfend.” Grantaire smiled against his neck. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I’m always safe with you,” Enjolras breathed, smiling when Grantaire’s arms tightened. No matter what happened as they found their feet in their new lives, no matter what they became, they would always have each other. Grantaire had become Enjolras’ anchor, someone who would hold him steady if he slipped, stumbling unsteadily between the different worlds he inhabited. With Grantaire at his side, Enjolras already felt unstoppable, ready to face whatever came into his life next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up making myself sad by thinking ahead to what's going to happen after this, so whatever you do don't think about Enjolras finding Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and all the Amis living in dreamy bohemian Paris...and that dream coming to a horrible end when WWII happens. ;____; Just imagine the next few years where they're all together and happy in a Paris where it's always summer and everyone's in love and having a wonderful time.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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